A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.
I have only made this letter longer because I have not had the time to make it shorter.”
(Letter 16, 1657)
it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing.
If I never see you again I will always carry you
on my fingertips
and at brain edges
and in centers
of what I am of
The package contained a collection of envelopes much like the first. They were all blue. They were all made of heavy paper. Good quality. The kind from one of those boutique paper stores. The front of each envelope was either illustrated in pen and ink or watercolor, and they were bundled together with an overstretched rubber band that had been doubled around them.
Yes, I miss you, I miss you.
You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.
What a good-for-nothing-fellow Charles is to bespeak the stockings – I hope he will be too hot all the rest of his life for it! –
Mr. Tulliver did not willingly write a letter, and found the relation between spoken and written language, briefly known as spelling, one of the most puzzling things in this puzzling world. Nevertheless, like all fervid writing, the task was done in less time than usual, and if the spelling differed from Mrs. Glegg’s,- why, she belonged, like himself, to a generation with whom spelling was a matter of private judgment.
As a historical novelist, there is very little I like more than spending time sorting through boxes of old letters, diaries, maps, trinkets, and baubles.