The lost art of letter writing.
Yes, this was an art. And not just the words – from the selection of the paper, to the postage stamps…the practice of trudging down to the nearest post office (or post box) and dropping it into the tiny slot – then sticking your hand in to see if it went down or not…and then of course the long wait. For it took days to reach, and then possibly days for the recipient to draft a response, and then a few days more for the reply to reach the post office, from where a postman dutifully picked it up to be hand delivered to an eagerly waiting you.
And of course – the words. Do I write dear, or dearest…do I ask about the weather (pink of health), or do I get straight to the point and save precious space on the paper? The thoughts flow slowly, the pauses as you search just the right word, knowing that you have a limited number of scratches to make before the whole letter becomes illegible (and plain messy). What’s the call to action at the end of it? Eagerly awaiting your reply? Or should I write something else? So many things to think of, so many emotions attached to one document.
No, an email doesn’t cut it. Not by far. And surely not now, when all of a sudden, everyone is, for the lack of a better phrase – “English professor GRADE”.
Here is a letter that has been circulating on X for a few days now. Written by the inimitable John Steinbeck, it’s as witty as they come. I rest my case.
April 28, 1955
Miss Marilyn Monroe
Waldorf Towers
Room 2728
New York City, N. Y.
Dear Marilyn:
In my whole experience I have never known anyone to ask for an autograph for himself. It is always for a child or an ancient aunt, which gets very tiresome, as you know better than I. It is therefore, with a certain nausea that I tell you that I have a nephew-in-law who lives in Austin, Texas whose name is Jon Atkinson. He has his foot in the door of puberty, but that is only one of his problems. You are the other.
I know that you are not made of celestial ether, but he doesn’t. A suggestion that you have normal functions would shock him deeply and I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
On a recent trip to Texas, my wife made the fatal error of telling Jon that I had met you. He doesn’t really believe it, but his respect for me has gone up even for lying about it.
Now, I get asked for all kinds of silly favors, so I have no hesitation in asking one of you. Would you send him, in my care, a picture of yourself, perhaps in pensive, girlish mood, inscribed to him by name and indicating that you are aware of his existence. He is already your slave. This would make him mine.
If you will do this, I will send you a guest key to the ladies’ entrance of Fort Knox and, furthermore, I will like you very much.
Yours sincerely
John Steinbeck