Quotes from my Blog. Letters. Tatyana Miller
all the pains that seem to be coming from the body but are not, pains of which no physician will ever find the cause-have on the contrary their root in this: that they are Life, all the Life that is in you, all the possibilities of being that are in you and live in you, without your even realizing it. They wear you out, distress you, depress you, exasperate you, continuously and vehemently taking your spirit by storm, or trying to forcibly remove the blocks of your conscience – perhaps too narrow and bourgeois – inside which you keep yourself bottled up.”
– Luigi Pirandello (1867—1936), from a letter to Marta Abba (1900—1988), dated July 13, 1928, in: “Pirandello’s Love Letters to Marta Abba”, translated from the Italian by Benito Ortolani
“At every moment of my life, God knows, I have always feared offending you, not God. I have tried to please you, rather than him.”
– Héloïse d’Argenteuil (1101? —1163/4?), from a letter to Pierre Abelard (1079—1142), in: “The Letters of Heloise and Abelard. A translation of their correspondence and related writings”, translated from the French by Mary Martin McLaughlin with Bonnie Wheeler
“Darling, you’re failure to reply to my letter has reduced me to a state of ridiculous panic. This simply mustn’t be. Please write at once, even if it’s only to tell me I’m impossible. I’m always rather impetuous & foolish on paper. And off it too. You must be patient with me. I care for you rather a lot.”
– Iris Murdoch (1919—1999), from a letter to David Hicks (1929—1998), Brussels, dated November 6, 1945, in: “Iris Murdoch, a Writer At War. Letters and Diaries, 1939—1945″
“… to a writer, a child is an alibi. If I should never in all my years write anything worth reading, I can always explain that by pointing to my child.”
– E. B. White (1899—1985), from a letter to Gustave s. Lobrano, New York, dated December, 1930, in: “Letters of E.B. White”, edited by Lobrano Guth and Martha White
“I don’t love you anymore; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a vile, mean, beastly slut. You don’t write to me at all; you don’t love your husband; you know how happy your letters make him, and you don’t write him six lines of nonsense…”
– Napoleon Bonaparte (1769—1821), from a letter to Joséphine de Beauharnais (1763—1814), dated November, 1796 (pbs.org)
“I wish, my love, that your love were less sure of me, so that you would be more anxious. But the more reason I have given you for confidence in the past, the more you neglect me now.”
– Héloïse d’Argenteuil (1101? —1163/4?), from a letter to Pierre Abelard (1079—1142), in: “The Letters of Heloise and Abelard. A translation of their correspondence and related writings”, translated from the French by Mary Martin McLaughlin with Bonnie Wheeler
“You leave me without news of you? You say that you prefer to be forgotten, rather than to complain ceaselessly, as it is very useless and since you will not be forgotten; complain then…”
– George Sand (1804—1876), from a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), Nohant, dated May 7, 1875, in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“I love you all the more because you are growing more unhappy. How you torment yourself, and how you disturb yourself about life! for all of which you complain, is life; it has never been better for anyone or in any time. One feels it more or less, one understands it more or less, one suffers with it more or less, and the more one is in advance of the age one lives in, the more one suffers. We pass like shadows on a background of clouds which the sun seldom pierces, and we cry ceaselessly for the sun which can do no more for us. It is for us to clear away our clouds.”
– George Sand (1804—1876), from a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), Nohant, dated December 8, 1874, in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“Do go on doing a lot of walking & keep up your love of nature, for that is the right way to understand art better & better. Painters understand nature & love her & teach us to see.”
– Vincent Van Gogh (1853—1890), from a letter to his brother, Theo Van Gogh (1857—1891), London, dated January, 1874, in: “The Letters Of Vincent Van Gogh”, translated from the French and Dutch by Arnold Pomerans
“I need to be alone. I am tired of grandeur; all my feelings have dried up. I no longer care about my glory. At twenty-nine I have exhausted everything.”
– Napoleon Bonaparte (1769—1821), from a letter to his brother, Joseph Bonaparte (1768—1844) (pbs.org)
“I love you … —
Don’t you know it – Should I be silent? —
I haven’t reread this letter – it may be hard to make out – Don’t waste time over it.
– If you [have] written don’t throw away the letters. Send what you write. I’d tear this up. —
I know it must sound broken – & not beautiful – not flowing – not as I should like it to be. —
But I’m not flowing – not beautiful these days. I am broken – & I don’t like myself at all. But
I’m trying hard to find my line again. You’ll help me. I must believe you will. —
Won’t you?”
– Alfred Stieglitz (1864—1946), from a letter to Georgia O’Keeffe (1887—1986), Lake George, New York, dated July 6, 1929, in: “My Faraway One. Selected Letters of Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz. Volume 1, 1915—1933″
“All the week I have been thinking intensely of you and what you have done for me. And I have written you several letters that I have not sent because none of them were true enough. There were too many words in them, I guess. But all of them contained in some form or other these simple statements:
I love you.
I need you very much.
I cannot bear to hurt you.
Those are the only meaning in all that I say here. You have been kinder to me than any other person in the world. I could not help but love you. You have made me dream greater dreams than I have ever dreamed before. And without you it will not be possible to carry out those dreams. But I cannot stand to disappoint you either. The memory of your face when I went away on Monday is more than I am able to bear. I must have been terribly stupid to have hurt you so, terribly lacking in understanding, terribly blind to what you have wanted me to see. You must not let me hurt you again. I know well that I am dull and slow, but I do not want to remain that way. I don’t know what to say except that I am sorry that I have not changed rapidly enough into what you would have me be. The other unsent letters contained more words than this one. They were much longer. They were much more emotionally revealing, perhaps. But I do not know how to write what I want to say any simpler than it is said here. Words only confuse, and I must not offer excuses for the things in which I have failed. Your face was so puzzled and so weary that day. I shall never forget it. You have been my friend… and I did not want to disappoint you. If I can do no better than I have done, then for your own sake, you must let me go. You must be free, too… At first we had wings. If there are no wings now for me, you must be free! We can still fly ahead always like the bright dream that is truth, and goodness. Free!”
– Langston Hughes (1902—1967), from a surviving draft of a letter to Charlotte Mason, dated February 23, 1929, in: “The Life of Langston Hughes: Volume I: 1902—1941,