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Letters of Note: An Eclectic Collection of Correspondence Deserving of a Wider Audience
Shaun Usher
By
Published: Sep 15, 2019
Category:
Non Fiction
Shaun Usher was a copywriter in a London ad agency. A very bored copywriter. And not finding inspiration for a stationery client. He went to the library and started reading books of letters. He was hooked. So he started a blog: Letters of Note. He had modest hopes for his blog: “I literally started it to pass the time in a sales job I hated. In the evenings when I got home I’d let off steam by doing the blog.”
His criterion was simple: “fascinating correspondence.” He read 20 letters for every one he chose. He collected 125 in an oversized, 8” by 11” book that prints a photo of the original letter and then a clear version in type. It was a bestseller in England for a year. This has forced Usher to correspond with readers and publishers. He does this on a “decrepit” nineteen-fifties typewriter.
The book reflects what we like to think of as English erudition — and eccentricity. There’s a note from Jack the Ripper. One from Campbell Soup to Andy Warhol. Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, a love letter of sorts to her husband. Fidel Castro, age 12, writes to Franklin Roosevelt. A decade after his death, Katharine Hepburn writes to Spencer Tracy. Elvis writes Nixon on American Airlines stationery. Hemingway writes to Fitzgerald; so does Zelda. Queen Elizabeth sends FDR a favorite recipe. There’s a job application letter from Leonardo da Vinci. You get the idea: this is a book to savor, to display prominently on a coffee table — and to give to people who eat this stuff up. [To buy the book from Amazon, click here. To buy the less lovely Kindle edition, click here.]
Here’s a treat: Benedict Cumberbatch reads Kurt Vonnegut’s letter to Charles McCarthy, head of the school board at North Dakota’s Drake High School, who in 1973 ordered its copies of Vonnegut’s “Slaughterhouse-Five” and other novels burned because they were “obscene.”
And here are some samples of the 125-course meal that is “Letters of Note.”
What if Apollo 11 couldn’t return? What if Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin were stranded on the Moon? President Nixon would have to speak. William Safire wrote a draft to H.R. Haldeman:
IN EVENT OF MOON DISASTER:
Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.
These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.
These two men are laying down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding.
They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by the nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown.
In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.
In ancient days, men looked at the stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.
Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.
For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.
A reader saw a bleak future for humanity. E.B. White replied:
Dear Mr. Nadeau:
As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness.
Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man’s curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out.
Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
Here is Iggy Pop, writing to a sad 20-year-old who sent him a gloomy 20-page letter.
dear laurence,
thank you for your gorgeous and charming letter, you brighten up my dim life. i read the whole fucking thing, dear. of course, i’d love to see you in your black dress and your white socks too. but most of all i want to see you take a deep breath and do whatever you must to survive and find something to be that you can love. you’re obviously a bright fucking chick, w/ a big heart too and i want to wish you a (belated) HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY 21st b’day and happy spirit. i was very miserable and fighting hard on my 21st b’day, too. people booed me on the stage, and i was staying in someone else’s house and i was scared. it’s been a long road since then, but pressure never ends in this life. ‘perforation problems’ by the way means to me also the holes that will always exist in any story we try to make of our lives. so hang on, my love, and grow big and strong and take your hits and keep going.
all my love to a really beautiful girl. that’s you laurence
Marianne wrote to Kurt Vonnegut:
“In 1990 my husband passed on; I was 36-years-old and left with 3 small children. For some reason I wrote to Kurt Vonnegut and thanked him for his books and his compassion. I did not expect a reply. He must have been a kind man, as he sent this to me within a month of writing to him. I have always wanted to share his kind words. It meant, and still means, so much to me.”
Vonnegut replied:
Dearest Marianne Brown —
It can’t be said often enough, “It is the woman who pays.” The miracle is that so many can and do somehow. I was in love (still am) with a widow with four kids (two not her own). She somehow raised them all on a teeny weeny salary. I told her one time, “I worry about women.” She said, “Don’t.”
An 8th century Chinese apology for drunkenness:
Yesterday, having drunk too much, I was intoxicated as to pass all bounds; but none of the rude and coarse language I used was uttered in a conscious state. The next morning, after hearing others speak on the subject, I realised what had happened, whereupon I was overwhelmed with confusion and ready to sink into the earth with shame. It was due to a vessel of my small capacity being filled for the nonce too full. I humbly trust that you in your wise benevolence will not condemn me for my transgression. Soon I will come to apologize in person, but meanwhile I beg to send this written communication for your kind inspection. Leaving much unsaid, I am yours respectfully.
