On love letters

It´s a shame people have forgotten the power of letters. I love letters, and, above all, the love letters. This year, I spent months reading the letters written by George Orwell. I can´t say he wrote love letters, but there´s one where he gets as close to that, where he proposes marriage to a young woman he had met. He is harshly honest about his health problems: he would die of tuberculosis (four years after he had written the letter), his possible infertility. He mentions he doesn´t care if she would have love affairs, because he believed the true fidelity, and the one he was looking for, was the intellectual one. He was a widow with a very young son, a man of slender means at that period of his life. In a way, he was always poor. His fame was posthumous one. I guess the answer to his proposal was a no, but he got to remarry again, days before he died of TB in a hospital. I guess the woman to whom he married truly loved and admired him deeply.

I haven´t written too many love letters, I guess. And I think I have received very few as well. That seems fare. Maybe, I should have loved more than I did.

Ever since I´ve seen this little girl performing, I couldn’t forget her.  Because, as much as I consider myself a letter lover, a faithful devotee to the power of words, there are times I think they are completely unnecessary.