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So few women have been as happy as I have been
February 1886
My will made by me, Laura Mary Octavia Lyttleton.
I have not much to leave behind me, should I die next month, having my treasure deep in my heart where no one can reach it, and where even death cannot enter...
I want, first of all, to tell Alfred that all I have in the world and all I am and ever shall be, belongs to him more than anyone...
So few women have been as happy as I have been every hour since I married - so few have had such a wonderful sky of love for their common atmosphere, that perhaps it will seem strange when I write down that the sadness of death and parting is greatly lessened to me by the fact of my consciousness of the eternal, indivisible oneness of Alfred and me.
I feel as long as he is down here I must be here, silently, secretly sitting beside him as I do every evening now, however much my soul is the other side, and that if Alfred were to die, we would be as we were on earth, love as we did this year, only fuller, quicker, deeper than ever, with a purer passion and a wiser worship.
Only in the meantime, whilst my body is hid from him and my eyes cannot see him, let my trivial toys be his till the morning comes when nothing will matter because all is spirit.
Laura Lyttleton to Alfred, her husband. She died shortly afterwards in childbirth.
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Dear Anna
Oakland, April 3, 1901
Dear Anna:
Did I say that the human might be filed in categories? Well, and if I did, let me qualify -- not all humans. You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you. I may boast that of nine out of ten, under given circumstances, I can forecast their action; that of nine out of ten, by their word or action, I may feel the pulse of their hearts. But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth.
Were ever two souls, with dumb lips, more incongruously matched! We may feel in common -- surely, we oftimes do -- and when we do not feel in common, yet do we understand; and yet we have no common tongue. Spoken words do not come to us. We are unintelligible. God must laugh at the mummery.
The one gleam of sanity through it all is that we are both large temperamentally, large enough to often understand. True, we often understand but in vague glimmering ways, by dim perceptions, like ghosts, which, while we doubt, haunt us with their truth. And still, I, for one, dare not believe; for you are that tenth which I may not forecast.
Am I unintelligible now? I do not know. I imagine so. I cannot find the common tongue.
Large temperamentally -- that is it. It is the one thing that brings us at all in touch. We have, flashed through us, you and I, each a bit of universal, and so we draw together. And yet we are so different.
I smile at you when you grow enthusiastic? It is a forgivable smile -- nay, almost an envious smile. I have lived twenty-five years of repression. I learned not to be enthusiastic. It is a hard lesson to forget. I begin to forget, but it is so little. At the best, before I die, I cannot hope to forget all or most. I can exult, now that I am learning, in little things, in other things; but of my things, and secret things doubly mine, I cannot, I cannot. Do I make myself intelligible? Do you hear my voice? I fear not. There are poseurs. I am the most successful of them all.
Jack
Jack London (1876 - 1916) was one of America's most popular writers and folk heroes. He held an enormous variety of jobs, never shying from adventure. Though married, he soon fell into an affair with Anna Strunsky, a fellow author who eventually caused his divorce. Paradoxically, London maintained that he did not believe in love, yet he clearly displays some of its symptoms in the that letter.
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You are all about me
Saturday Night, May 19, 1917
My darling,
Do not imagine, because you find these lines in your journal that I have been trespassing. You know I have not - and where else shall I leave a love letter? For I long to write you a love-letter tonight.
You are all about me - I seem to breathe you, hear you, feel you in me and of me.
What am I doing here? You are away. I have seen you in the train, at the station, driving up, sitting in the lamplight, talking, greeting people, washing your hands... And I am here - in your tent - sitting at your table.
There are some wall-flower petals on the table and a dead match, a blue pencil and a Magdeburgische Zeitung. I am just as much at home as they.
When dusk came, flowing up the silent garden, lapping against the blind windows, my first and last terror started up. I was making some coffee in the kitchen. It was so violent, so dreadful I put down the coffee pot - and simply ran away - ran ran out of the studio and up the street with my bag under one arm and a block of writing paper and a pen under the other. I felt that if I could get here and find Mrs. F I should be *safe*.
I found her and I lighted your gas, wound up your clock, drew your curtains and embraced your black overcoat before I sat down, frightened no longer. Do not be angry with me, Bogey. Ca a ete plus fort que moi .... That is why I am here.
When you came to tea this afternoon you took a brioche, broke it in half and padded the inside doughy bit with two fingers. You always do that with a bun or roll or a piece of bread. It is your way - your head a little on one side the while.
When you opened your suitcase, I saw your old Feltie and a French book and a com all higgledy-piggedly. 'Tig, Ive only got 3 handkerchiefs.' Why should that memory be so sweet to me?...
Last night, there was a moment before you got into bed. You stood, quite naked, bending forward a little, talking. It was only for an instant. I saw you - I loved you so, loved your body with such tenderness. Ah, my dear!
And I am not thinking of *passion*. No, of that other thing that makes me feel that every inch of you is so precious to me - your soft shoulders - your creamy warm skin, your ears cold like shells are cold - your long legs and your feet that I love to clasp with my feet - the feeling of your belly - and your thin young back. Just below that bone that sticks out at the back of your neck you have a little mole.
It is partly because we are young that I feel this tenderness. I love your mouth. I could not bear that it should be touched even by a cold wind if I were the Lord.
We two, you know, have everything before us, and we shall do very great things. I have perfect faith in us, and so perfect is my love for you that I am, as it were, still, silent to my very soul.
I want nobody but you for my lover and my friend and to nobody buy you shall I be faithful.
I am yours forever.
Tig.
Katherine Mansfield, New Zealand-born British short-story writer, to John Middleton Murry, fellow writer and critic on May 19, 1917.
Their romance and marriage continued for many years but it was cut short by Katherine's early death from tuberculosis in 1923.
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My love for you tonight
January 27, 1918
My love for you tonight is so deep and tender that it seems to be outside myself as well. I am fast shut up like a little lake in the embrace of some big mountains. If you were to climb up the mountains,
you would see me down below, deep and shining - and quite fathomless, my dear. You might drop your heart into me and you'd never hear it touch bottom.
I love you - I love you - Goodnight. Oh Bogey, what it is to love like this!
Katherine Mansfield, writer, to John Middleton Murray
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while I was writing the last page
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-91) was born in Salzburg, the son of Leopold Mozart and Anna Maria Pertl. From the age of five he performed all over Europe with his sister, Maria-Anna.
By 1772 he had composed 25 symphonies and two string quartets. He was appointed honorary concert master to the court in Salzburg in 1774, and after more tours--to Italy, Manneheim, and Paris--and a spell as court organist in Salzburg (1778-80), he moved to Vienna in 1781. Mozart wrote most of his best work in the years that followed: 12 piano concertos (1784-86); six quartets; and the operas The Marriage of Figaro (1786), Don Giovanni (1787), and Cosi Fan Tutte (1790). In 1791, the year of the Requiem and The Magic Flute, he died of heart failure, at age 35.
This is a portion of a letter sent to his wife Constanze
Mainz October 17, 1790
PS.--while I was writing the last page, tear after tear fell on the paper. But I must cheer up -- catch! -- An astonishing number of kisses are flying about --- The deuce!-- I see a whole crowd of them! Ha! Ha!...I have just caught three-- They are delicious!-- You can still answer this letter, but you must address your reply to Linz, Poste Restante-- That is the safest course. As I do not yet know for certain whether I shall go to Regensburg, I can't tell you anything definite. Just write on the cover that the letter is to be kept until called for.
Adieu--Dearest, most beloved little wife-- Take care of your health-- and don't think of walking into town. Do write and tell me how you like our new quarters-- Adieu. I kiss you millions of times.
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I have something stupid and ridiculous to tell you
1833
I have something stupid and ridiculous to tell you. I am foolishly writing to you instead of having told you this, I do not know why, when returning from that walk.
To-night I shall be annoyed at having done so. You will laugh in my face, will take me for a maker of phrases in all my relations with you hitherto. You will show me the door and you will think I am lying.
I am in love with you. I have been thus since the first day I called on you.
Alfred de Musset
Alfred was a popular French poet and dramatist. He wrote this letter to Amantine Aurore Dudevant who was a French writer. She was later romantically linked with Chopin.
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Could I see you without passion
Could I see you without passion, or be absent from you without pain, I need not beg your pardon for thus renewing my vows that I love you more than health, or any happiness here or hereafter.
Everything you do is a new charm to me, and though I have lanquished for seven long tedious years of desire, jealously despairing, yet every minute I see you I still discover something new and more bewitching. Consider how I love you; what would I not renounce or enterprise for you?
I much have you mine, or I am miserable, and nothing but knowing which shall be the happy hour can make the rest of my years that are to come tolerable. Give me a word or two of comfort, or resolve never to look on me more, for I cannot bear a kind look and after it a cruel denial.
This minute my heart aches for you; and, if I cannot have a right in yours, I wish it would ache till I could complain to you no longer.
Thomas Otway, an English poet, wrote this between 1678 and 1688 to Mrs Barry, an actress. She performed in Otway's plays but would not take part in his real life passion for her. He died in poverty at the age of thirty-four with his love still unrequited.
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My burden most faithful wife
Publius Ovidius Naso -- known as "Ovid" (43 B.C.-A.D.17)
Ovid wrote cool, witty, "modern" poems about the arts of love. Born in Sulmona, Italy, a small provincial town, he was educated in Rome and traveled in Greece before shocking and delighting Roman society with his poems, the Loves (Amores; written at intervals from 20 B.C. onward) and The Art of Love (Ars amatoria; c. 1 B.C.) Married three times, only his last marriage appears to have been a love match. Exiled to Tomis on the Black Sea for displeasing the emperor Augustus, he was separated from his wife until his death nine years later. His last and greatest work, the Metamorphoses, a collection of myths and legends that inspired many later writers, had just been completed when he was banished.
C A.D. 8-17
I plowed the vast ocean on a frail bit of timber; (whereas) the ship that bore the son of AEson (Jason)* was strong... The furtive arts of Cupid aided him; arts which I wish that Love had not learned from me. He returned home; I shall die in these lands, if the heavy wrath of the offended God shall be lasting.
My burden, most faithful wife, is a harder one than that which the son of AEson bore. You, too, whom I left still young at my departure from the City, I can believe to have grown old under my calamities. Oh, grant it, ye Gods, that I may be enabled to see you, even if such, and to give the joyous kiss on each cheek in its turn; and to embrace your emaciated body in my arms, and to say, "'twas anxiety, on my account, that caused this thinness"; and, weeping, to recount in person my sorrows to you in tears, and thus enjoy a conversation that I had never hoped for; and to offer the due frankincense, with grateful hand, to the Caesars, and to the wife that is worthy of a Caesar, Deities in real truth!
Oh, that the mother of Menon, that Prince being softened, would with her rosy lips, speedily call forth that day.
*Ovid compares his sea-journey into exile with the voyage made by Jason and the Argonauts, who went in search of the legendary Golden Fleece. He laments the fact that his own troubles are far worse than those Jason experienced.
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My Darling Josephine
August 17, 1908
S.S. Roosevelt,
My Darling Josephine: Am nearly through with my writing. Am brain weary with the thousand and one imperative details and things to think of. Everything thus far has gone well, too well I am afraid, and I am (solely on general principles) somewhat suspicious of the future. The ship is in better shape than before; the party and crew are apparently harmonious; I have 21 Eskimo men (against 23 last time) but the total of men women and children is only 50 as against 67 before owing to a more careful selection as to children... I have landed supplies here, and leave two men ostensibly on behalf of Cook.
As a matter of fact I have established here the sub-base which last I established at Victoria Head, as a precaution in event of loss of the Roosevelt either going up this fall or coming down next summer. In some respects this is an advantage as on leaving here there is nothing to delay me or keep me from taking either side of the Channel going up. the conditions give me entire control of the situation...
You have been with me constantly, sweetheart. At Kangerdlooksoah I looked repeatedly at Ptarmigan Island and thought of the time we camped there. At Nuuatoksoah I landed where we were. And on the 11th we passed the mouth of Bowdoin Bay in brilliant weather, and as long as I could I kept my eyes on Anniversary Lodge. We have been great chums dear. Tell Marie to remember what I told her, tell "Mister Man" [Robert Peary, Jr.] to remember "straight and strong and clean and honest", obey orders, and never forget that Daddy put "Mut" in his charge till he himself comes back to take her. In fancy I kiss your dear eyes and lips and cheeks sweetheart; and dream of you and my children, and my home till I come again. Kiss my babies for me. Aufwiedersehen.
Love, Love, Love. Your Bert
P.S. August 18, 9 a.m. ...Tell Marie that her fir pillow perfumes me to sleep.
Robert Peary (1856-1920) was born in Cresson, Pennsylvania. At 24, he joined the navy, which gave him leave of absence for Arctic exploration. He made his first expedition to Greenland in 1886 with his lifelong associate Matthew Henson; on his second expedition in 1891 he discovered Independence Fjord and brought back evidence of Greenland being an island.
Attempts to reach the North Pole in 1900, 1902, and 1905 all ended in failure. Finally, in 1909 he announced to the world that he had succeeded. That same year his rival Dr. Fredrick Cook claimed to have reached the Pole a year earlier. Cook's claim was dismissed, and Peary's was eventually accepted, in spite of widespread doubt. He retired as a rear admiral in 1911, and lived with his family in Eagle Island off the coast of Maine until his death nine years later.
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I cannot write much
1603
You shall now receive (my dear wife) my last words in these my last lines. My love I send you that you may keep it when I am dead, and my counsel that you may remember it when I am no more.
I would not by my will present you with sorrows (dear Besse) let them go to the grave with me and be buried in the dust. And seeing that it is not God's will that I should see you any more in this life, bear it patiently, and with a heart like thy self.
First, I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words can rehearse for your many travails, and care taken for me, which though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to
you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world.
Secondly, I beseech you for the love you bear me living, do not hide your self many days, but by your travails seek to help your miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child. Thy mourning cannot avail me, I am but dust...
Remember your poor child for his father's sake, who chose you, and loved you in his happiest times. Get those letters which I wrote to the Lords, wherein I sued for my life; God is my witness it was for you and yours that I desired life, but it is true that I disdained my self for begging of it: for know it that your son is the son of a true man, and one who in his own respect despiseth death and all his
misshapen and ugly forms.
I cannot write much, God he knows how hardly I steal this time while others sleep, and it is also time that I should separate my thoughts from the world. Beg my dead body which living was denied thee; and either lay it at Sherburne or in Exeter Church, by my Father and Mother; I can say no more, time and death call me away....
Written with the dying hand of sometimes they Husband, but now alas overthrown. Yours that was, but now not my own.
Walter Raleigh
Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618) was an English colonizer, courtier, historian and explorer. He was a favorite courtier of Queen Elizabeth I and was knighted by her in 1584.
In 1603 Raleigh was wrongly tried and convicted of treason against the crown, having been set up by one of his enemies in the royal court. His sentence was immediate death. Imprisoned in the Tower of London on what he believed was the eve of his execution, he composed a loving farewell to his wife, Elizabeth (not the queen).
He was not executed the following morning but remained confined in the Tower of London until 1616, when he was released to lead an expedition
in search of gold for the crown. However, in 1618 he was returned to the Tower of London and executed by the harsh hand of Queen Elizabeth I's successor, James I.
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Dear First Lady
Aboard Air Force One
March 4 1983
Dear First Lady
I know tradition has it that on this morning I place cards Happy Anniversary cards on your breakfast tray. But things are somewhat mixed up. I substituted a gift & delivered it a few weeks ago.
Still this is the day, the day that marks 31 years of such happiness as comes to few men. I told you once that it was like an adolescent's dream of what marriage should be like. That hasn't changed.
You know I love the ranch but these last two days made it plain I only love it when you are there. Come to think of it that's true of every place & every time. When you aren't there I'm no place, just lost in time & space.
I more than love you, I'm not whole without you. You are life itself to me. When you are gone I'm waiting for you to return so I can start living again.
Happy Anniversary & thank you for 31 wonderful years.
I love you
Your Grateful Husband
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A wedding anniversary letter
May 20, 1943
Dearest Bunny,
Do you know what this is--a wedding anniversary letter. I think it should arrive about on the right date. Do you remember that hot June day thirty-three years ago?--the church jammed--Father with a lovely waistcoat with small blue spots--the Rough Riders--the ushers in cutaways--the crowds in the street--your long white veil and tight little bodice--the reception at Aunt Harriet's--Uncle Ed--your mother with one of her extraordinary hats that stood straight up.
And do you remember what the world was then--little and cozy--a different order of things, wars considered on the basis of a Dick [Richard Harding] Davis novel, a sort of "As it was in the beginning" atmosphere over life. We've come a long way down a strange road since then.
Nothing has happened as we imagined it would except our children. We never thought we'd roam the world. We never thought our occupations and interests would cover such a range. We never thought that our thirty-third anniversary would find us deep in our second war and me again at the front. Well, darling, we've lived up to the most important part of the ceremony, "In sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, till death do you part."
Much, much love.
Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. (1887-1944)
The eldest child of U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt by his second wife, was born at Sagamore Hill, the family home in Oyster Bay, on New York's Long Island. In 1908 after attending Harvard, he went into business, and married Eleanor (Bunny) in 1910. In time they had four children. During World War I young Teddy fought in France and received many decorations for bravery. In the 1920's he entered politics, going on to hold several high offices, including assistant secretary of the Navy and governor of Puerto Rico.
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You are like the bright
December 1847
I don't know anything dreadful enough to liken to you - you are like a sweet forest of pleasant glades and whispering branches - where people wander on and on in its playing shadows they know not how far - and when they come near the centre of it, it is all cold and impenetrable - and when they would fain turn, lo - they are hedged with briars and thorns and cannot escape...
You are like the bright - soft - swelling - lovely fields of a high glacier covered with fresh morning snow - which is heavenly to the eye - and soft and winning on the foot - but beneath, there are winding clefts and dark places in its cold - cold ice - where men fall, and rise not again.
This was written by John Ruskin, an English writer, artist and philosopher to Effie Gray, whom he eventually married. However, his insights were correct. The marriage was never consummated and they divorced six years later.
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How happy your last letters have made me
1838
Clara,
How happy your last letters have made me -- those since Christmas Eve! I should like to call you by all the endearing epithets, and yet I can find no lovelier word than the simple word 'dear,' but there is a
particular way of saying it. My dear one, then, I have wept for joy to think that you are mine, and often wonder if I deserve you.
One would think that no one man's heart and brain could stand all the things that are crowded into one day. Where do these thousands of thoughts, wishes, sorrows, joys and hopes come from? Day in, day out, the procession goes on. But how light-hearted I was yesterday and the day before! There shone out of your letters so noble a spirit, such faith, such a wealth of love!
What would I not do for love of you, my own Clara! The knights of old were better off; they could go through fire or slay dragons to win their ladies, but we of today have to content ourselves with more
prosaic methods, such as smoking fewer cigars, and the like. After all, though, we can love, knights or no knights; and so, as ever, only the times change, not men's hearts...
You cannot think how your letter has raised and strengthened me... You are splendid, and I have much more reason to be proud of you than you of me. I have made up my mind, though, to read all your wishes in your face. Then you will think, even though you don't say it, that your Robert is a really good sort, that he is entirely yours, and he loves you more than words can say.
You shall indeed have cause to think so in the happy future. I still see you as you looked in your little cap that last evening. I still hear you call me du. Clara, I heard nothing of what you said but that
du. Don't you remember?
But I see you in many another unforgettable guise. Once you were in a black dress, going to the theatre with Emilia List; it was during our separation. I know you will not have forgotten; it is vivid with me. Another time you were walking in the Thomasgasschen with an umbrella up, and you avoided me in desperation. And yet another time, as you were putting on your hat after a concert, our eyes happened to meet, and yours were full of the old unchanging love.
I picture you in all sorts of ways, as I have seen you since. I did not look at you much, but you charmed me so immeasurably... Ah, I can never praise you enough for yourself or for your love of me, which I
don't really deserve.
Robert
Robert Schumann, the seventeenth century German composer and pianist is known for his enduring operas and piano pieces. He first fell in love with Clara Wieck during his early piano training under the instruction of her father, Friederich Wieck. Clara herself was a virtuoso pianist and her father was bitterly opposed to the match. Persistent to marry her, Robert went to court to seek legal consent. His love eventually won out and the couple was soon married.
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I want my rapscallionly fellow vagabond
February 27, 1913.
To ‘Stella’ Beatrice Campbell
I want my rapscallionly fellow vagabond.
I want my dark lady. I want my angel -
I want my tempter.
I want my Freia with her apples.
I want the lighter of my seven lamps of beauty, honour,
laughter, music, love, life and immortality ... I want
my inspiration, my folly, my happiness,
my divinity, my madness, my selfishness,
my final sanity and sanctification,
my transfiguration, my purification,
my light across the sea,
my palm across the desert,
my garden of lovely flowers,
my million nameless joys,
my day’s wage,
my night’s dream,
my darling and
my star...
George Bernard Shaw
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But now I have learnt about the final enterprise
16th Century
I know that when two wayfarers 'take shelter under the same tree and slake their thirst in the same river' it has all been determined by their karma from a previous life. For the past few years you and I have shared the same pillow as man and wife who had intended to live and grow old together, and I have become as attached to you as your own shadow. This is what I believed, and I think this is what you have also thought about us.
But now I have learnt about the final enterprise on which you have decided and, though I cannot be with you to share the grand moment, I rejoice in the knowledge of it. It is said that (on the eve of his final battle) the Chinese general, Hsiang Yü, valiant warrior though he was, grieved deeply about leaving Lady Yü, and that (in our own country) Kiso Yoshinaka lamented his parting from Lady Matsudono. I have now abandoned all hope about our future together in this world, and (mindful of their example) I have resolved to take the ultimate step while you are still alive. I shall be waiting for you at the end of what they call the road to death.
I pray that you may never, never forget the great bounty, deep as the ocean, high as the mountains, that has been bestowed upon us for so many years by our lord, Prince Hideyori.
To Lord Shigenari, Governor of Nagato
From His Wife
Considered the ideal Japanese hero, Lord Kimura Shigenari was the Governor of Nagato in the 16th century. In this letter, Lady Shigenari, sensing that her husband would soon be killed in battle, chooses to take her own life rather than continue the journey of life alone.
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I lay down last night with your image in my thoughts
1707
Smith-street
West-minster
Madam,
I lay down last night with your image in my thoughts, and have awak'd this morning in the same contemplation. The pleasing transport ith which I'me delighted, has a sweetnesse in it attended with a train of ten thousand soft desires, anxieties, and cares.
The day arises on my hopes with new brightnesse; youth beauty and innocence are the charming objects that steal me from myself, and give me joys above the reach of ambition pride or glory. Believe me, Fair One, to throw myself at yr feet is giving myself the highest blisse I know of earth.
Oh hasten ye minutes! Bring on the happy morning wherein to be ever her's will make me look down on Thrones!
Dear Molly I am tenderly, passionately, faithfully thine,
Richard Steele
Sir Richard Steele, a Dublin-born English writer to Mary Scurlock in August, 1707. They were married shortly after the letter was written. He wrote her over 400 affectionate and often witty letters which she sold very profitably after his death.
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Cat my cat
March 16, 1950
Cat: my cat: If only you would write to me: My love, oh Cat.
This is not, as it seems from the address above, a dive, a joint, saloon, etc. but the honourable & dignified headquarters of the dons of the University of Chicago.
I love you. That is all I know. But all I know, too, is that I am writing into space: the kind of dreadful, unknown space I am just going to enter. I am going to Iowa, Illinois, Idaho, Indindiana, but these, though mis-spelt, *are* on the map. You are not.
Have you forgotten me? I am the man you used to say you loved. I used to sleep in your arms - do you remember? But you never write. You are perhaps mindless of me. I am not of you. I love you.
There isn't a moment of any hideous day when I do not say to myself. 'It will be alright. I shall go home. Caitlin loves me. I love Caitlin.' But perhaps you have forgotten. If you have forgotten, or lost your affection for me, please, my Cat, let me know. I Love You.
Dylan
Dylan Thomas, Welsh poet, to his wife Caitlin while he was on a reading tour in North America.
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I already love in you your beauty
November 2, 1856
I already love in you your beauty, but I am only beginning to love in you that which is eternal and ever precious - your heart, your soul. Beauty one could get to know and fall in love with in one hour and cease to love it as speedily; but the soul one must learn to know. Believe me, nothing on earth is given without labour, even love, the most beautiful and natural of feelings.
Count Leo Tolstoy, Russian writer, to Valeria Arsenev, his fiance.
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Off you go again alone
December 30, 1915
Off you go again alone and its with a very heavy heart I part from you. No more kisses and tender caresses for ever so long -- I want to bury myself in you, hold you tight in my arms, make you feel the intense love of mine.
You are my very life Sweetheart, and every separation gives such endless heartache...
Goodbye my Angel, Husband of my heart I envy my flowers that will accompany you. I press you tightly to my breast, kiss every sweet place with tender love...
God bless and protect you, guard you from all harm, guide you safely and firmly into the new year. May it bring glory and sure peace, and the reward for all this war has cost you.
I gently press my lips to yours and try to forget everything, gazing into your lovely eyes - I lay on your precious breast, rested my tired head upon it still. This morning I tried to gain calm and strength for the separation. Goodbye wee one, Lovebird, Sunshine, Huzy mine, Own!
Tsarina Alexandra to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia
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