It was on this day in 1809 that one of my favourite haters was born. Celebrated biologist, naturalist, and holder of the intimidating title, ‘Father of Evolution,’ Charles Darwin was undoubtedly one of the most intelligent people ever to have graced this earth. But he was also just a person. A person who, according to his letters, was often irritable, overworked, and exasperated. And seasick.

I hate every wave of the ocean.

Charles Darwin
Letter to his cousin, William Fox
15th February 1836

I loathe, I abhor the sea, & all ships which sail on it.

Charles Darwin
Letter to his sister, Susan Darwin
4th August 1836

I hate a Barnacle as no man ever did before, not even a Sailor in a slow-sailing ship.

Charles Darwin
Letter to William Fox
24th October 1852

Oh my God how I do hate species & varieties.

Charles Darwin
Letter to J. D. Hooker
11th March 1858

I am very tired, very stomachy & hate nearly the whole world.

Charles Darwin
Letter to Thomas Huxley
10th September 1860

I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything.

Charles Darwin
Letter to Charles Lyell
1st October 1861

I hate myself, I hate clover, and I hate bees.

Charles Darwin
Letter to John Lubbock
3rd September 1862

I am languid & bedeviled & hate writing & hate everybody.

Charles Darwin
Letter to J. D. Hooker
23rd June 1863

All of Darwin’s letters can be found at the wonderful website, Darwin Correspondence Project.

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Sorry I was so glum. I’m in a cursed mood and can’t bear the human face.

Virginia Woolf
Letter to Ethel Smyth
10th February 1933

—The Letters of Virginia Woolf

As to your notion of an allegory, there is none. Charlotte’s Web is a tale of the animals in my barn, not of the people in my life. When you read it, just relax. Any attempt to find allegorical meanings is bound to end disastrously, for no meanings are in there. I ought to know.

E. B. White
Letter to John Detmold
10th February 1953

—Letters of E. B. White

My husband, T. S. Eliot, loved to recount how late one evening he stopped a taxi. As he got in, the driver said: “You’re T. S. Eliot.” When asked how he knew, he replied: “Ah, I’ve got an eye for a celebrity. Only the other evening I picked up Bertrand Russell, and I said to him: ‘Well, Lord Russell, what’s it all about;’ and, do you know, he couldn’t tell me.”

Valerie Eliot
Letter to The Times
10th February 1970

—The Times: Great Letters

Since books are to libraries what asphalt is to highway departments, I assume that Indiana is also asking donations from suppliers of asphalt for her roads. Or has it been decided that asphalt is worth good money, and that books are not?

Kurt Vonnegut
Letter to Charles Ewick, Indiana State Library
10th February 1983

—Kurt Vonnegut: Letters

The civilization of any country may always be measured by the degree of equality between men and women; and society will never come truly into order until there is perfect equality and copartnership between them in every department of human life.

Lydia Maria Child
Letter to Mrs. S. M. Parsons
10th February 1877

—Lydia Maria Child: Selected letters, 1817-1880

I have been much moved by your letter; and the pleasure it has given me has some little sorrowful ingredient in it. In the strife and struggle of this great world where most of us lose each other so strangely, it is impossible to be spoken to out of the old times without a softened emotion. You so belong to the days when the qualities that have done me most good since, were growing in my boyish heart that I cannot end my answer to you lightly.

We are all sailing away to the sea, and have a pleasure in thinking of the river we are upon, when it was very narrow and little.

Charles Dickens
Letter to his first love, Maria Beadnell
10th February 1855

—The Selected Letters of Charles_Dickens

I’ve got no advice on these up and down times of elation & depression you seem to have, but I can tell you that time is very dangerous without a rigid routine. If you do the same thing every day at the same time for the same length of time, you’ll save yourself from many a sink. Routine is a condition of survival.

Flannery O’Connor
Letter to Betty Hester
10th February 62

—The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O'Connor

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Since 1800, when John Adams first moved into the newly-built White House with his admirably-named dogs, Juno and Satan, the majority of US Presidents have brought their canine friends to live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. In fact, Donald Trump was the first US President in over a century, since poochless William McKinley took the reins in 1897, to not own a dog. In 1989, when Ronald Reagan’s Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Rex, left the presidential kennel, his place was immediately filled by Millie, the English Springer Spaniel belonging to George H W Bush, and within months she gave birth to a litter of puppies, one of whom, Ranger, became Bush’s favourite. In 1992, panicked by Ranger’s ballooning weight, President sent this urgent missive to all White House personnel.

February 6, 1992

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

THIS IS AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN FROM THE PRESIDENT

SUBJECT: MY DOG “RANGER”

Recently Ranger was put on a weight-reduction program. Either that program succeeds or we enter Ranger in the Houston Fat Stock Show as Prime Hereford.

All offices should take a formal “pledge” that reads as follows: “WE AGREE NOT TO FEED RANGER. WE WILL NOT GIVE HIM BISCUITS. WE WILL NOT GIVE HIM FOOD OF ANY KIND.”

In addition, Ranger’s ‘access’ is hereby restricted. He has been told not to wander the corridors without an escort. This applies to the East and West Wings, to the Residence from the 3rd floor to the very, very bottom basement.

Although Ranger will still be permitted to roam at Camp David, the Camp David staff including the Marines, Naval personnel, All Civilians and Kids are specifically instructed to “rat” on anyone seen feeding Ranger.

Ranger has been asked to wear a ‘Do not feed me’ badge in addition to his ID.

I will, of course, report on Ranger’s fight against obesity. Right now, he looks like a blimp, a nice friendly appealing blimp, but a blimp.

We Need Your Help—All hands, please help.

FROM THE PRESIDENT

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1889 was a turning-point year for Arthur Conan Doyle. Two years earlier he had published A Study in Scarlet, the first Sherlock Holmes novel, and another would follow in 1890. His medical practice was faltering, his literary prospects were gathering pace, and in January his life shifted again with the birth of his first child, Mary Louise, to his wife, Louise (or ‘Toodles’ to her family). The following letter was his way of breaking the news to his mother

Jan 28 1889

Southsea

Toodles produced this morning at 6.15 a remarkably fine specimen of the Toodles minor, who is now howling her head off in the back bedroom. I must say that I am surprised at the conduct of the young woman, seeing that both her parents are modest sort of people. She came evidently for a long visit, and yet she has made no apology for the suddenness of her arrival. She had no luggage with her, nor any possessions of any kind, barring a slight cough, and a voice like a coalman. I regret to say that she had not even any clothes, and we have had for decency’s sake to rig her out with a wardrobe.

Now, one would not mind doing all this for the sake of a visitor, but when the said visitor does nothing but snuffle in reply it becomes monotonous. She has frank and engaging manners, but she is bald, which will prevent her from going out into society for some little time.

Forgive me for not telling you, dear. I knew how trying the suspense of waiting would be, and thought that on the whole it would be best that you should learn when it was too late to worry yourself.

P. S. Tell Lottie her flannel square came in very useful for the young Empress—her first bit of property.

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The Founding Fathers cannot have intended a President and his small group of appointed advisors to perform like a monarch surrounded by his court. As if the people’s representatives and the people themselves were a general nuisance, and the job is to keep the whole tiresome bunch quiet. . .

What a black historical irony if the Free World was lost due to the tyranny of the Leader of the Free World. No sane man would believe for a minute that you win the minds and hearts of the people by bombing them. Or by financing and arming rulers whom the people detest. . .

Our country is founded on as decent principles as exist in human society, but of course principles become contemptible hypocrisy when they are only used for rhetoric, not as a faithful guide to action. If this unforgivable war has taught us to be eternally vigilant against the misuse of our power, then it will have served one valuable purpose: the education of Americans.

Martha Gellhorn
Letter to Daniel Ellsberg
1971

—Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn

There is very little question in my mind that eventually—maybe this century, maybe next—the world will become politically unified. There is no other sensible conclusion. It may be the unity of disaster, when we all go up in a jolly burst of fissionable fuss, or, if we can hang tight awhile, it may be a more comfortable unity, when we knock some sense into each other’s heads, quit calling each other “foreigners,” and get down to business.

E. B. White
Letter to Janice White
27th April 1952

—Letters of E. B. White

The day is coming, and it is not far distant, when ordinary intelligent people are going to look upon the world as it revealed itself in the middle of the 20th century, and to ask what possibly could have driven civilized people into the hysteria and near-insanity which characterizes us now. It will be then impossible to explain how people who call themselves Christians or Jews or Mohammedans or followers of the great Buddha, could have persuaded themselves that civilization was going to be preserved and increased and broadened by world war. And yet today an extraordinary number of human beings are depending upon force, and force to the utmost, in order to accomplish what they seem to think will be a new and better world.

In that coming day we shall all know that such an idea was crazy; that neither armies nor navies, atom bombs or unlimited funds are going to remake the human soul; that what we have got to have in this world is a change of heart.

We have got to respect our fellow beings no matter what their color or race is, or their history or their present situation.

We have got to see that the poverty of the mass of men disappears, that ignorance is eliminated and that disease yields to scientific knowledge.

Then, starting upon that foundation, we have got to do justice to human beings without regard to the lines of separation that appear, and we have got, so far as is humanly possible, to give thought and desire the widest freedom compatible with the freedom and progress of all.

W. E. B. Du Bois
Letter to The Tribune
13th July 1953

—The Correspondence of W. E. B. Du Bois: Selections, 1944-1963

I think it is more difficult these days to define what makes a good citizen than it has ever been before. Certainly all any of us can do is follow our own conscience and retain faith in our democracy. Sometimes it is the very people who cry out the loudest in favor of getting back to what they call “American Virtues” who lack this faith in our country. I believe that our greatest strength lies always in the protection of our smallest minorities.

Charles Schulz
Letter to a 10-year-old fan
9th November 1970

—Jean Schulz

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In December of 1982, Oregon’s chief law enforcement officer, Attorney General Dave Frohnmayer, received a letter of complaint from someone named “I.M. Grinch,” accusing Santa Claus of a catalogue of improper business practices. Frohnmayer responded with one of his tongue-in-cheek Christmas legal opinions, in the form of a formal letter to “S. T. Nicholas” that was released to the press and published in local newspapers.

Mr. S. T. Nicholas
1225 N. Pole
Gnome, Alaska 90001

Dear Mr. Nicholas:

This letter is to inform you of our decision in the complaint of improper business practices brought against you by Mr. I. M. Grinch.

In his complaint, Mr. Grinch has requested that the Oregon Department of Justice immediately seek a temporary restraining order prohibiting you from any business-related activities because of the following alleged violations of state and federal antitrust laws:

1. That by conspiring with parents you cause confusion or misunderstanding as to the source, sponsorship, and approval of your goods and services (ORS 646.608);

2. That by consulting with parents on gifts for children you have furnished them with privileged customer information;

3. That by inciting parents to whisper among themselves and hide presents during the month of December, and by compiling a list and checking it twice, you engage in conspiratorial practices (ORS 646.725);

4. That by discriminating against naughty persons you have accorded special service to some customers in violation of ORS 646.080, which states that customers must be treated on proportionally equal terms;

5. That by linking the receipt of your gifts to persons’ good behavior you violated Oregon law, which prohibits making product sales conditional upon other behavior;

6. That by giving away presents you have violated federal minimum price regulations;

7. That by claiming to deliver presents all over the world in only one night you are promising delivery of goods while knowing you are not able to fulfill that promise (ORS 646.607 and 646.608);

8. That you have conspired with Saint Nick, Santa Claus, Père Noel, and others to engage in an illegal restraint of trade by allocating markets and customers and by fixing prices (ORS 646.725); and

9. That you have received kickbacks from your reindeer.

Finally, Mr. Grinch has accused you of having violated ORS 646.730, which states:

Every person who shall monopolize, or attempt to monopolize, or combine or conspire with any other person or persons to monopolize, any part of trade or commerce, shall be in violation of ORS 136.617, 646.705 or 646.805, and 646.990.

We find that you have participated in monopoly, but only in the delivery of the game to children, a non-citable practice.

We conclude that the allegations are unfounded and see no reason to convene a special grand jury. We have, however, filed a counterclaim on your behalf against I.M. Grinch under state antitrust laws for contriving a shortage of good will. His action may also constitute the crime of malicious rottenness.

Further, I have instructed our Consumer Protection Section to pay close attention to enforcement of chimney cleaning regulations for the remainder of 1982.

Merry Christmas,

Dave Frohnmayer
Attorney General

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On this day in 1880, Mary Ann Evans died. Better known by her pen name, George Eliot, she was born in Nuneaton and is best known for writing Middlemarch, a novel often regarded as one of the greatest in the English language. In 1865, the young daughter of Caroline Bray, a close friend and fellow writer, died following a long illness. Some weeks later, Evans sent her this letter.

My dear Cara,

You see I have let the weeks go by—thinking of you, but not writing to you. I believe you are one of the few who can understand that in certain crises, direct expression of sympathy is the least possible to those who most feel sympathy. If I could have been with you in bodily presence, I should have sat silent, thinking silence a sign of feeling that speech, trying to be wise, must always spoil. The truest things one can say about great death are the oldest simplest things that everybody knows by rote, but that no one knows really till death has come very close. And when that inward teaching is going on, it seems pitiful presumption for those who are outside to be saying anything. There is no such thing as consolation, when we have made the lot of another our own as you did Nelly’s. The anguish must be borne—it will only get more and more bearable as other thoughts and feelings recover some power.

I don’t know whether you strongly share, as I do, the old belief that made men say the gods loved those who died young. It seems to me truer than ever, now life has become more complex and more and more difficult problems have to be worked out. Life, though a good to men on the whole, is a doubtful good to many, and to some not a good at all. To my thought, it is a source of constant mental distortion to make the denial of this a part of religion, to go on pretending things are better than they are.

But I will not write of judgments and opinions. What I want my letter to tell you is that I love you truly, gratefully, unchangeably. And to show me you believe it, you must not write till you feel inclined—not think I shall mind if you don’t answer this at all, for indeed there is nothing to answer.

With love to you, always, dear Cara, your old
Marian

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Mid-flight on December 21st, 2004, “disgusted” with the location of his seat due to its proximity to the lavatory, a Continental Airlines passenger wrote the following letter of complaint to the airline’s headquarters. The now-famous letter, complete with illustrations and vivid descriptions of the passenger’s stench-filled discomfort, found its way onto the Internet soon after being received by the company’s Customer Care department in April of 2005, and has since been confirmed as genuine by an apologetic company spokeswoman named Courtney Wilcox…

The letter is not totally accurate and uses sarcastic humor to make the seat sound a lot worse than it is. But we don’t want to pooh-pooh this customer’s concerns — seat 29D is less than ideal. Most flights are not sold out and normally we can easily re-seat a customer who prefers not to sit in this location. However, the Dec. 21 flight was completely full, and we have apologized to the customer who wrote to us about the concerns. If there was a quick and easy solution to this problem we would do it in a whiz. However, the aircraft configuration is fixed and there is little we can do at this point to just flush away the issue.

The victim’s identity remains a mystery.

APR 13 2005

Dear Continental Airlines,

I am disgusted as I write this note to you about the miserable experience I am having sitting in seat 29E on one of your aircrafts. As you may know, this seat is situated directly across from the lavatory, so close that I can reach out my left am and touch the door.

All my senses are being tortured simultaneously. It’s difficult to say what the worst part about sitting in 29E really is? Is it the stench of the sanitation fluid that’s blown all over my body every 60 seconds when the door opens? Is it the wooosh of the constant flushing? Or is it the passengers asses that seem to fit into my personal space like a pornographic jig-saw puzzel?

I constructed a stink-shield by shoving one end of a blanket into the overhead compartment — while effective in blocking at least some of the smell, and offering a small bit of privacy, the ass-on-my-body factor has increased, as without my evil glare, passengers feel free to lean up against what they think is some kind of blanketed wall. The next ass that touches my shoulder will be the last!

I am picturing a board room, full of executives giving props to the young promising engineer that figured out how to squeeze an additional row of seats onto this plane by putting them next to the LAV.

I would like to flush his head in the toilet that I am close enough to touch, and taste, from my seat.

Putting a seat here was a very bad idea. I just heard a man GROAN in there! THIS SUCKS!

DEPICTION OF MANS BUTT IN MY FACE

Worse yet, is I’ve paid over $400.00 for the honor of sitting in this seat!

Does your company give refunds? I’d like to go back where I came from and start over. Seat 29E could only be worse if it was located inside the bathroom.

I wonder if my clothing will retain the sanitizing odor…. what about my hair! I feel like I’m bathing in a toilet bowl of blue liquid, and there is no man in a little boat to save me.

I am filled with a deep hatred for your plane designer and a general dis-ease that may last for hours.

We are finally decending, and soon I will be able to tear down the stink-shield, but the scars will remain.

I suggest that you initiate immediate removal of this seat from all of your crafts. Just remove it, and leave the smouldering brown hole empty, a good place for sturdy/non-absorbing luggage maybe, but not human cargo.

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What do I want for Christmas? I want a war-escaper—a sort of ladder, I think, attached to a balloon—or a portable ivory tower or a new plush womb to escape back into. Or a lotion for invisibility.

Dylan Thomas
Letter to Vernon Watkins
13th December 1939

—Dylan Thomas: The Collected Letters

Oh an English Christmas! We are not Christians; we are not social; we have no part in the fabric of the world, but all the same, Christmas flattens us out like a steam roller; turkey, pudding, tips, waits, holly, good wishes, presents, sweets...

Virginia Woolf
Letter to Jacques Raverat
26th December 1924

—The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume III: 1923-1928

We aren’t sending out any Christmas presents... I’m sick of Jesus, and don’t see at all why he should go on being born every year. We might have somebody else born, for a change.

D.H. Lawrence
Letter to Else Jaffe
12th December 1927

—Collected Works of D.H. Lawrence

What an awful time of year this is! Just as one is feeling that if one can just hold on, it won’t get any worse, then all this Christmas idiocy bursts upon one like a slavering Niagara of nonsense & completely wrecks one’s entire frame. This means, in terms of my life, making a point of buying about six simple inexpensive presents when there are rather more people about than usual, and going home. No doubt in terms of yours it means seeing your house given over to hoards of mannerless middle-class brats and your good food & drink vanishing into the quacking tooth-equipped jaws of their alleged parents. Yours is the harder course, I can see. On the other hand, mine is happening to me.

Philip Larkin
Letter to Judy Egerton
17th December 1958

—Selected Letters of Philip Larkin, 1940-1985

Andrew says he insists on having the Tree either before Birdie comes or after she’s gone as she embarrasses him so much with the clergymen as she always asks them (a) why they became clergymen (b) if they wish they had been made a bishop and (c) if they enjoy sleeping with their wives. I must say I do see.

Deborah Mitford
Letter to Diana Mitford
1st December 1946

—The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters

Our pudding was made in a baby’s bath, stirred by everybody & Mr Gurdjieff put in a coin. Who gets the coin gets our darling new born calf for a present. The calf—1 day old—was led into the salon to the beating of tambourines & to a special melody composed for it. It took it very quietly. But two minute baby pigs which were also brought in & allowed to play squealed & shrieked terribly.

Katherine Mansfield
Letter to Ida Constance Baker
24th December 1922

—A Portrait of Katherine Mansfield

It would be a happy thing if the miles were fewer and we could have even a little time together this Christmas Day—the first since we met. But it doesn’t matter really, for you seem very close.

Rachel Carson
Letter to Dorothy Freeman
December 1953

—Always, Rachel: The Letters of Rachel Carson and Dorothy Freeman

The little niches are hung so full of gay objects, the fabrics are so lavish... then in the evening when a single lantern across from it all burns and moves, excited as it were by the presence of everything its light engages, then Arabian Nights pass over into all that ever was anticipation, wish, and suspense within one, and Christmas is not so unthinkable at all.

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Morocco
Letter to Clara Rilke
17th December 1910

—Letters Of Rainer Maria Rilke, Vol II: 1910 1926

I came home to a Christmas of death, doom, desolation, sadness, disease, and despair: my family is showing its customary and magnificent Russian genius for futility and tragedy.

Thomas Wolfe
Letter to Aline Bernstein
December 1925

—My Other Loneliness: Letters of Thomas Wolfe and Aline Bernstein

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It was in 1975 that Martin Scorsese finally met his idol, Michael Powell, and embarked upon a fifteen year friendship that would see Powell—one half of The Archers and the renowned British filmmaker behind such movies as The Red Shoes and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp—repeatedly offering invaluable advice and feedback to the American director. A perfect example: in 1988, after reading a new script of Scorsese’s titled Wise Guys, Powell sent his friend the following enthusiastic letter and declared it “one of the best constructed scripts [he had] ever read.”

Wise Guys eventually became Goodfellas. Sadly, Powell died in February of 1990, just months before its theatrical release. 

November 14, 1988

Dear Marty

Re: the script of Wise Guys

It is one of the best constructed scripts that I have ever read. At the same time it is not academic, it is not a script just on paper. It is very much alive. 

The first question I would ask you, is what is the tone of the director? It is a take-it-or-leave-it tone? It is a dispassionate tone? Is it meant to be the wiseguy’s thoughts - or meditations - or memories? And, in the final hiding place, is he resigned to his completely anonymous existence, or does he expect that they will catch up with him some day?

I think that the narration is brilliantly handled on the page, and the tone of the narration will be equally important. How have you managed to sustain the action and narration side by side for the whole length of the script? It’s a masterpiece. I can only compare it with the script of The African Queen, or Billy Wilder's Double Indemnity. 

Yes, it is a little long, and the pause, or the length, seems to come about the 100 minute mark. By the way, the women, when they arrive, are very good, but I would love to see one of the women in the early part of the film as a young girl, or even a little girl. I mean a new character - either his sister, or a ten-year-old girl. Some of the best scripting is in the first twenty pages. How are you going to handle the youngster? There are not many actors who can play from ten years old to thirty years old. 

Dear Marty, it is a stunning script, and will make a wonderful film, and a priceless social document. 

Michael Powell

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In October of 1949, a few months after the publication of George Orwell’s dystopian masterpiece, Nineteen Eighty-Four, he received a letter from fellow author Aldous Huxley, who, 17 years earlier, had seen his own political dystopia published, in the form of Brave New World. Having recently finished reading Orwell’s novel, Huxley had a few words to say. What begins as a letter of praise soon becomes a brief comparison of the two novels, and an explanation as to why Huxley believes his own book to be a more plausible prediction of the future.

(Fact of note: In 1917, long before either book was written, Aldous Huxley briefly taught French at Eton. One of his pupils was Eric Blair, later known to most by his pen name, George Orwell.)

Wrightwood. Cal.

21 October, 1949

Dear Mr. Orwell,

It was very kind of you to tell your publishers to send me a copy of your book. It arrived as I was in the midst of a piece of work that required much reading and consulting of references; and since poor sight makes it necessary for me to ration my reading, I had to wait a long time before being able to embark on Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Agreeing with all that the critics have written of it, I need not tell you, yet once more, how fine and how profoundly important the book is. May I speak instead of the thing with which the book deals — the ultimate revolution? The first hints of a philosophy of the ultimate revolution — the revolution which lies beyond politics and economics, and which aims at total subversion of the individual’s psychology and physiology — are to be found in the Marquis de Sade, who regarded himself as the continuator, the consummator, of Robespierre and Babeuf. The philosophy of the ruling minority in Nineteen Eighty-Four is a sadism which has been carried to its logical conclusion by going beyond sex and denying it. Whether in actual fact the policy of the boot-on-the-face can go on indefinitely seems doubtful. My own belief is that the ruling oligarchy will find less arduous and wasteful ways of governing and of satisfying its lust for power, and these ways will resemble those which I described in Brave New World. I have had occasion recently to look into the history of animal magnetism and hypnotism, and have been greatly struck by the way in which, for a hundred and fifty years, the world has refused to take serious cognizance of the discoveries of Mesmer, Braid, Esdaile, and the rest.

Partly because of the prevailing materialism and partly because of prevailing respectability, nineteenth-century philosophers and men of science were not willing to investigate the odder facts of psychology for practical men, such as politicians, soldiers and policemen, to apply in the field of government. Thanks to the voluntary ignorance of our fathers, the advent of the ultimate revolution was delayed for five or six generations. Another lucky accident was Freud’s inability to hypnotize successfully and his consequent disparagement of hypnotism. This delayed the general application of hypnotism to psychiatry for at least forty years. But now psycho-analysis is being combined with hypnosis; and hypnosis has been made easy and indefinitely extensible through the use of barbiturates, which induce a hypnoid and suggestible state in even the most recalcitrant subjects.

Within the next generation I believe that the world’s rulers will discover that infant conditioning and narco-hypnosis are more efficient, as instruments of government, than clubs and prisons, and that the lust for power can be just as completely satisfied by suggesting people into loving their servitude as by flogging and kicking them into obedience. In other words, I feel that the nightmare of Nineteen Eighty-Four is destined to modulate into the nightmare of a world having more resemblance to that which I imagined in Brave New World. The change will be brought about as a result of a felt need for increased efficiency. Meanwhile, of course, there may be a large scale biological and atomic war — in which case we shall have nightmares of other and scarcely imaginable kinds.

Thank you once again for the book.

Yours sincerely,
Aldous Huxley

Aldous Huxley’s October 21, 1949 letter to George Orwell “1984 vs. A Brave New World.” Copyright © 1949 by Aldous Huxley. Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc. on behalf of the Aldous and Laura Huxley Trust. All rights reserved.

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Richard Feynman was one of the best-known and most influential physicists of his generation. In the 1940s, he played a part in the development of the atomic bomb; in 1986, as a key member of the Rogers Commission, he investigated the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster and identified its cause; in 1965, he and two colleagues were awarded the Nobel Prize “for their fundamental work in quantum electrodynamics, with deep-ploughing consequences for the physics of elementary particles.” He made countless other advances in his field, the complexities of which I will never be able understand.

In June of 1945, his wife and high-school sweetheart, Arline, passed away after succumbing to tuberculosis. She was 25-years-old. 16 months later, in October of 1946, Richard wrote his late wife a heartbreaking love letter and sealed it in an envelope. It remained unopened until after his death in 1988.

October 17, 1946

D’Arline,

I adore you, sweetheart.

I know how much you like to hear that — but I don’t only write it because you like it — I write it because it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you.

It is such a terribly long time since I last wrote to you — almost two years but I know you’ll excuse me because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; and I thought there was no sense to writing.

But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I want to tell you I love you. I want to love you. I always will love you.

I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead — but I still want to comfort and take care of you — and I want you to love me and care for me. I want to have problems to discuss with you — I want to do little projects with you. I never thought until just now that we can do that. What should we do. We started to learn to make clothes together — or learn Chinese — or getting a movie projector. Can’t I do something now? No. I am alone without you and you were the “idea-woman” and general instigator of all our wild adventures.

When you were sick you worried because you could not give me something that you wanted to and thought I needed. You needn’t have worried. Just as I told you then there was no real need because I loved you in so many ways so much. And now it is clearly even more true — you can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of loving anyone else — but I want you to stand there. You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.

I know you will assure me that I am foolish and that you want me to have full happiness and don’t want to be in my way. I’ll bet you are surprised that I don’t even have a girlfriend (except you, sweetheart) after two years. But you can’t help it, darling, nor can I — I don’t understand it, for I have met many girls and very nice ones and I don’t want to remain alone — but in two or three meetings they all seem ashes. You only are left to me. You are real.

My darling wife, I do adore you.

I love my wife. My wife is dead.

Rich

P.S. Please excuse my not mailing this — but I don’t know your new address.

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Richard Feynman, letter to Arline Feynman (October 17, 1946) originally from Perfectly Reasonable Deviations From the Beaten Track. Copyright © 2005 by Michelle Feynman and Carl Feynman. Reprinted by permission of Basic Books.

Edith Wharton’s lifelong relationship with Walter Van Rensselaer Berry began in 1883, as both holidayed in Bar Harbor, Maine. Their connection was instant and natural. Two years later, she wed another man, Edward, thus beginning an unfulfilling marriage that lasted eighteen years, most of which were unhappy, and ended in divorce. She would later write her most celebrated novel, The Age of Innocence (1920), for which she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Literature: she was, in fact, the first woman to receive the accolade. Six years later, Walter Berry died following a long illness, the final stretch of which saw Wharton take care of him. Shortly after Berry passed away, Wharton wrote this letter to her friend, John Hugh Smith. She would later call Berry ‘the great love of all my life’.

October 15, 1927

My dearest John,

All my friends have sent me words of sympathy, but only you have said just what I wanted, what I needed. Thank you, dear.

Yes, I am glad indeed that it is over, but I perceive now that I, who thought I loved solitude, was never for one moment alone—& a great desert lies ahead of me.

The sense of desolation (though of thankfulness too, of course) is unspeakably increased by those last days together, when he wanted me so close, & held me so fast, that all the old flame & glory came back, in the cold shadow of death & parting. Oh, my dear, I sometimes feel I am too old to live through such hours, & take up the daily round again.

But I remember what you say, & I am proud of having kept such a perfect friendship after the great days were over, & always to have felt that, through all the coming & going of things in his eager ambitious life, I was there, in the place he put me in so many years ago, the place of perfect understanding.

I don’t think I ever bothered him but once—& when he felt that the busy brilliant days were over, he liked to have me with him, because he knew I wouldn’t fuss & sentimentalize, or try to divert his eyes from the end we both knew they were fixed on. He hated humbug—so do I. And now I’m so grateful to all my friends for understanding what I feel—& you most, dear John.

Edith

Robert is staying with me, & won’t leave till after the funeral. He has been kindness itself.

Edith Wharton also features in my new book, Diaries of Note, published last week in the UK. She’s one of 366 diarists whose private worlds fill its pages. More info at the link below.

Thank you!

Finally, a heartfelt thank you to everyone who came to the Diaries of Note launch at Cadogan Hall on Monday. It was a joy to spend the evening talking about the value and power of diaries, about cryptic masturbation tallies, about Orwell’s wartime egg counts, about the amusing juxtaposition of the mundane and the momentous, and everything else. I’m so grateful to our brilliant readers—Louise Brealey, Matt Berry, Helen Fielding, Sir Tony Robinson, and Ferdinand Kingsley—for bringing various diarists’ voices to life with such warmth and wit. It really was a fantastic night.

My new book—the one that has stolen my focus recently, for which I truly apologise—is published tomorrow, Thursday 9th October, in the UK1. I’m so very proud of it. Prouder, in fact, than any other book I’ve put my name to, and not just because of its complexity and the sheer number of moving parts, but because, in many ways, it feels like the project I’ve been working towards all along.

It’s called Diaries of Note: 366 Lives, One Day at a Time, and it’s essentially a journey through the leap year by way of 366 real diary entries, each plucked from history and written by a different diarist. It’s a reminder that the act of keeping a diary, however ordinary it might feel at the time, can end up offering extraordinary glimpses into what it means to be alive.

There are moments of grief and joy, frustration and wonder, boredom and brilliance. You’ll find entries by Virginia Woolf, Nelson Mandela, Simone de Beauvoir, Elton John, Frida Kahlo, Salvador Dalí, Derek Jarman, Audre Lorde, Emma Thompson, Alan Rickman, Brian Eno, Joan Rivers, and many more. Some will make you laugh; some might knock the wind out of you.

It’s a beautifully illustrated hardback, designed to be opened anywhere. You can dip in at random, or follow it day by day, reading each entry on its original date. Either way, I think you’ll find something that lingers.

I’m quietly thrilled to say that people whose work I adore—Michael Palin, Richard E. Grant, Helen Fielding, Nick Hornby, and others—have all said lovely things about it. I’ll shamelessly include their comments below.

If you’d like to pick up a copy, it should be available in all sensible bookshops. Or you can grab a copy online from the stockists listed here.

Thank you, as always, for reading. The letters will return very soon.

Shaun

“The immediacy of these diary entries captures moments in time like nothing else.”

— Richard E. Grant

“This seductive collection shows how wonderfully rewarding diaries can be.”

— Michael Palin

“So blissfully funny, entertaining and full of bite-sized insight.”

— Helen Fielding, Author of Bridget Jones’ Diary

“Very few books can find room for Sir Alex Ferguson, Edith Wharton, Bill Haley and Susan Sontag, but Diaries Of Note and its 366 diary entries draws on a remarkable cast of characters, all reflecting on key moments of their lives and times. Fans of Shaun Usher’s wonderful Letters Of Note will want to read Diaries Of Note daily, and it’s a wonderful gift for anyone currently living a life.”

— Nick Hornby

“Completely fascinating and inspiring. Completely addictive. You’ll say to yourself ‘just one more’ and before you know it you’ve read the whole collection.”

— Stephen Fry

“Diaries of Note carries the nostalgic charm of a bygone era, when people committed their thoughts and feelings to the real page, with real ink from a real pen, rather than oversharing on Instagram. This is a volume to treasure, sigh and snigger over.”

— Bidisha Mamata

“There is something illicit about reading a diary, even one ultimately intended for publication. It is the writer alone with herself or himself, sometimes saying the unsayable, at other times fixing the fleeting moment or wrestling with an unsolvable conundrum. Shaun Usher’s marvellous collection takes us through the whole glorious spectrum, by turns hilarious, heartbreaking, scurrilous, touching, tragic. A perfect daily companion.”

— Simon Callow

“Reading Diaries of Note I am simultaneously reminded of why I never wrote a diary, and how much I regret never having written one. This book is brimming with insights, intrigues and intimacies from the famous and the infamous.”

— Nihal Arthanayake

I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything.

Charles Darwin
Letter to Charles Lyell
1st October 1861

—Darwin Correspondence Project

No one really takes very much interest, why should they, in my scribblings. Do you think I shall ever write a really good book?

Virginia Woolf
Letter to Violet Dickinson
1st October 19051

—Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume 1; 1888-1912

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a damned shame that a field as potentially dynamic and vital as journalism should be overrun with dullards, bums, and hacks, hag-ridden with myopia, apathy, and complacence, and generally stuck in a bog of stagnant mediocrity. If this is what you’re trying to get The Sun away from, then I think I’d like to work for you.

Hunter S. Thompson
Letter to the editor of the Vancouver Sun
1st October 1958

—Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one’s very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.

George Eliot
Letter to Maria Lewis
1st October 1841

—George Eliot’s Life, as Related in her Letters and Journals

What you ought to do is write you big lazy bastard. My god it is hard for anybody to write. I never start a damn thing without knowing 200 times I can’t write—never will be able to write a line—can’t go on—can’t get started—stuff is rotten—can’t say what I mean—know there is a whole fine complete thing and all I get of it is the bacon rinds. You would write better than anybody but the minute it becomes impossible you stop. That is the time you have to go on through and then it gets easier. It always gets utterly and completely impossible.

Thank God it does—otherwise everybody would write and I would starve to death.

Ernest Hemingway
Letter to Waldo Pierce
1st Oct 1928

—The Letters of Ernest Hemingway: Volume 2

Art is no mere game of the intellect; it is a special atmosphere that we breathe. But if in search of more and more potent air we descend ever deeper into art’s subterranean recesses, who knows that we may not end by breathing deadly miasmas?

Gustave Flaubert
Letter to Louise Colet
1st October 1852

—The Selected Letters of Gustave Flaubert, edited by Francis Steegmuller

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Exactly seventy years ago, on 30th September 1955, less than a month before audiences were wowed by his iconic performance as Jim Stark in Rebel Without a Cause, 24-year-old James Dean died shortly after his Porsche collided with another car at high speed. Nine days later, his funeral took place in Fairmount, not far from the farm on which he was raised by his aunt and uncle, Ortense and Marcus Winslow. Thousands attended the service. A few days later, as millions continued to mourn his untimely death, a stunning letter of condolence was sent to the Winslows by Stewart Stern, a friend of Dean’s and the man who wrote the screenplay for Rebel Without a Cause.

Hollywood 46, California
1372 Miller Drive
12 October, 1955

Dear Marcus and Mrs. Winslow:

I shall never forget that silent town on that particular sunny day. And I shall never forget the care with which people set their feet down — so carefully on the pavements — as if the sound of a suddenly scraped heel might disturb the sleep of a boy who slept soundly. And the whispering. Do you remember one voice raised beyond a whisper in all those reverential hours of goodbye? I don’t. A whole town struck silent, a whole town with love filling its throat, a whole town wondering why there had been so little time in which to give the love away.

Gandhi once said that if all those doomed people at Hiroshima had lifted their faces to the plane that hovered over them and if they had sent up a single sigh of spiritual protest, the pilot would not have dropped his bomb. That may or may not be. But I am sure, I am certain, I know — that the great wave of warmth and affection that swept upward from Fairmount has wrapped itself around that irresistible phantom securely and forever.

Nor shall I forget the land he grew on or the stream he fished, or the straight, strong, gentle people whom he loved to talk about into the nights when he was away from them. His great-grandma whose eyes have seen half of America’s history, his grandparents, his father, his treasured three of you — four generations for the coiling of a spring — nine decades of living evidence of seed and turning earth and opening kernel. It was a solid background and one to be envied. The spring, released, flung him into our lives and out again. He burned an unforgettable mark in the history of his art and changed it as surely as Duse, in her time, changed it.

A star goes wild in the places beyond air — a dark star born of coldness and invisible. It hits the upper edges of our atmosphere and look! It is seen! It flames and arcs and dazzles. It goes out in ash and memory. But its after-image remains in our eyes to be looked at again and again. For it was rare. And it was beautiful. And we thank God and nature for sending it in front of our eyes.

So few things blaze. So little is beautiful. Our world doesn’t seem equipped to contain its brilliance too long. Ecstasy is only recognizable when one has experienced pain. Beauty only exists when set against ugliness. Peace is not appreciated without war ahead of it. How we wish that life could support only the good. But it vanishes when its opposite no longer exists as a setting. It is a white marble on unmelting snow. And Jimmy stands clear and unique in a world where much is synthetic and dishonest and drab. He came and rearranged our molecules.

I have nothing of Jim’s — nothing to touch or look at except the dried mud that clung to my shoes — mud from the farm that grew him — and a single kernel of seed corn from your barn. I have nothing more than this and I want nothing more. There is no need to touch something he touched when I can still feel his hand on me. He gave me his faith, unquestioningly and trustfully — once when he said he would play in REBEL because he knew I wanted him to, and once when he tried to get LIFE to let me write his biography. He told me he felt I understood him and if LIFE refused to let me do the text for the pictures Dennis took, he would refuse to let the magazine do a spread on him at all. I managed to talk him out of that, knowing that LIFE had to use its own staff writers, but will never forget how I felt when he entrusted his life to me. And he gave me, finally, the gift of his art. He spoke my words and played my scenes better than any other actor of our time or of our memory could have done. I feel that there are other gifts to come from him — gifts for all of us. His influence did not stop with his breathing. It walks with us and will profoundly affect the way we look at things. From Jimmy I have already learned the value of a minute. He loved his minutes and I shall now love mine.

These words aren’t clear. But they are clearer than what I could have said to you last week.

I write from the depths of my appreciation — to Jimmy for having touched my life and opened my eyes — to you for having grown him all those young years and for having given him your love — to you for being big enough and humane enough to let me come into your grief as a stranger and go away a friend.

When I drove away the sky at the horizon was yellowing with twilight and the trees stood clean against it. The banks of flowers covering the grave were muted and grayed by the coming of evening and had yielded up their color to the sunset. I thought — here’s where he belongs — with this big darkening sky and this air that is thirst-quenching as mountain water and this century of family around him and the cornfield crowding the meadow where his presence will be marked. But he’s not in the meadow. He’s out there in the corn. He’s hunting the winter’s rabbit and the summer’s catfish. He has a hand on little Mark’s shoulder and a sudden kiss for you. And he has my laughter echoing his own at the great big jokes he saw and showed to me — and he’s here, living and vivid and unforgettable forever, far too mischievous to lie down long.

My love and gratitude, to you and young Mark,
Stewart Stern

This letter can be found in the original Letters of Note book. The audio embedded above, featuring a reading by Ferdinand Kingsley, is taken from the accompanying audiobook.

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Please drop everything and join me in wishing the happiest of birthdays to E. B. White’s true masterpiece: a perfectly formed letter that never fails to lift my spirits, however dark the day.

New York

September 28th, 1956

Dear Mr. Adams:

Thanks for your letter inviting me to join the Committee of the Arts and Sciences for Eisenhower.

I must decline, for secret reasons.

Sincerely,
E. B. White

Letter excerpted from the exquisite book, Letters of E. B. White, edited by Dorothy Lobrano Guth.

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David Bowie was just 20 years of age and yet to make a dent in the music scene when, on this day in 1967, he received his first piece of fan mail from America. The fan in question was 14-year-old Sandra Dodd, a New Mexico resident whose uncle, a manager of a local radio station, had recently given her a promotional copy of Bowie’s first album. Intrigued, she wrote him a letter, told him that his music was as good as that of The Beatles and offered to start a US fan club on his behalf. Her letter did reach Bowie. In fact, he was so excited to receive such praise from across the Atlantic that he immediately typed out this endearing reply from the office of his manager, Kenneth Pitt.

25th., September 1967

Dear Sandra,

When I called in this, my manager’s office, a few moments ago I was handed my very first American fan letter – and it was from you. I was so pleased that I had to sit down and type an immediate reply, even though Ken is shouting at me to get on with a script he badly needs. That can wiat (wi-at? That’s a new English word which means wait).

I’ve been waiting for some reaction to the album from American listeners. There were reviews in Billboard and Cash Box, but they were by professional critics and they rarely reflect the opinions of the public. The critics were very flattering however. They even liked the single “Love You Till Tuesday”. I’ve got a copy of the American album and they’ve printed the picture a little yellow. I’m really not that blond. I think the picture on the back is more ‘me’. Hope you like those enclosed.

In answer to your questions, my real name is David Jones and I don’t have to tell you why I changed it. “Nobody’s going to make a monkey out of you” said my manager. My birthday is January 8th and I guess I’m 5’10”. There is a Fan Club here in England, but if things go well in the States then we’ll have one there I suppose. It’s a little early to even think about it.

I hope one day to get to America. My manager tells me lots about it as he has been there many times with other acts he manages. I was watching an old film on TV the other night called “No Down Payment” a great film, but rather depressing if it is a true reflection of The American Way Of Life. However, shortly after that they showed a documentary about Robert Frost the American poet, filmed mainly at his home in Vermont, and that evened the score. I am sure that that is nearer the real America. I made my first movie last week. Just a fifteen minutes short, but it gave me some good experience for a full length deal I have starting in January.

Thankyou for being so kind as to write to me and do please write again and let me know some more about yourself.

Yours sincerely,
David Bowie

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It was on this day in 1966 that Star Trek: The Original Series first aired on NBC, introducing millions of people to a crew that included Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy, and Mr. Spock, the half-human, half-Vulcan whose calm logic quickly became iconic. A few months before that historic premiere, no doubt unaware they were on the brink of television history, the show’s producers were entertaining themselves by writing to each other about something far less lofty: how to name Spock’s fellow Vulcans. What follows is just a selection of their correspondence.

TO: Gene Roddenberry
FROM: Bob Justman
DATE: May 3, 1966

SUBJECT: STAR TREK PLANET VULCAN PROPER NAMES

Dear Gene:

I would like to suggest that all proper names for denizens of Mr. Spock’s “PLANET VULCAN” follow a set routine. To wit: all names begin with the letters “SP” and end with the letter “K.” All names to have a total of five letters in them—no more and no less.

Therefore: Mr. Spock aptly fits this pattern. Other names would be as follows:

Spook, Spuck, Spack, Speek, Spouk, Spaak, Spilk, Spiak, Spunk, Spank, Spink, Spenk, Sponk, Spilk, Spalk, Spelk, Spolk, Spulk, Spirk, Spark, Spork, Sperk, Spurk, Spawk, Spauk, Speuk, Spuik, Spouk, Splak, Splek, Splek, Splik, Spluk, Spakk, Spekk, Spikk, Spokk, Spukk, Spark, Spirk, Sperk, Spork, Spurk, Spxyx.

Hope that the suggestions are of immense help to you. I remain,

Your humble and obedient servant,
Robert H. Justman

---

TO: Gene Roddenberry
FROM: Herb Solow
DATE: May 5, 1966

SUBJECT: PLANET VULCAN PROPER NAMES

Dear Gene:

In an industry that is founded on the uncontrollable appetite for creativity, it is indeed heartwarming for the management of a major studio to receive a copy of a memo that deals with such an intensely competitive and accurate discussion of proper names on the planet Vulcan.

However, what with time being of the essence; with our schedule calling for production: of our series to commence in three very short weeks, I feel enough time–rather more than enough time—has been spent devising names for Mr. Spock’s relatives. With a deep respect for creativity, I feel we should go on to something of greater importance.

H.F.S.

P.S. Have you thought of the name Spiik? Or Sprik? Or Sprak? Or Sprok? Or Spruk? Or Spudk? Or Spidk? Or Spuck? Or Spisk? Or Spask? Or Spesk? Or Spask? Or any of the other seventy-eight I already devised?

P.P.S. Please refer to Mr. Justman’s May 3 memo and you will find that the fifth name in column one is the same as the sixth name in column three. I understand that you science fiction people with your technical jargon have a word to describe this happening. It is known as a “mistake.”

P.P.P.S. What do you say if all the people on the planet Vulcan are lawyers (interesting idea) and they all have a firm name like Spook, Speek, Spork, Splik, and Roddenberry? (The last name is necessary to keep the audience aware at all times that this relates to science fiction.)

P.P.P.P.S. Also note that in the May 3 memo the eighth name in column two is the same as the eighth name in column four. Also the tenth name in column two is the same as the ninth name in column four. There are probably others, but my time is too valuable to waste pointing out that the seventh name in column one is the same name as the third name in column two.

---

TO: Herb Solow
FROM: Bob Justman
DATE: May 6, 1966

SUBJECT: STAR TREK PLANET VULCAN PROPER NAMES

Dear Mr. Solow:

I refer to your memo, dated May 5, 1966. Any Vulcanite or science-fiction aficionado would know that the fifth name in column one (Spouk) is pronounced “Spook.” Whereas the sixth name in column three (Spouk) is pronounced “Spowk.”

The eighth name in column two (Spirk) is pronounced “Sperk.” Whereas the eighth name in column four (Spirk) is pronounced “Speerk.”

Also, the tenth name in column two (Spork) is pronounced “Spawrk.” Whereas the ninth name in column four (Spork) is pronounced “Spohrk.”

Also, the seventh name in column one (Spilk) is pronounced “Spilk.” Whereas the third name in column two (Spilk) is pronounced “Speelk.”

Consider yourself chastised.

Your Phrend,
Bahb

---

TO: Robert Justman
FROM: John D. F. Black
DATE: May 6, 1966

SUBJECT: YOUR MEMO TO H. SOLOW RE: STAR TREK PLANET VULCAN PROPER NAMES

Dear Bahb…

I refer to your memo, dated May 6, 1966, regarding Mr. Solow’s memo, dated May 5, 1966 … specifically pertaining to paragraph three of your note. I certainly take no issue with your reference to the tenth name in column two (Spork) being pronounced “Spawrk.” This, of course, is common knowledge.

However…

I am forced to raise some question in regard to your “whereas.” By this I mean the ninth name in column four (Spork) as being pronounced “Spohrk.” The proper pronunciation for the ninth name in column four (Spork) is, in fact, “Sphork” rather than “Spohrk.” …unless, of course, you are one of those infected by the current trend toward excessive use of “jargon” and “common usage.”

I sincerely hope that you will take this slight criticism in the spirit in which it is intended.

Sincerely yours,x
John D.F.

These memos can be found in the book, The Making of Star Trek, published in 1968 and long out-of-print. Copies can be found in the usual places.

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In October of 1860, having recently seen a picture of him without facial hair, an 11-year-old girl named Grace Bedell decided to write to Republican candidate and future U.S. President Abraham Lincoln, with a single suggestion that would surely win him the affections of the voting public. That suggestion was simply to grow a beard. To her amazement and delight, Lincoln soon replied; better still, she met him in person a few months later, as he travelled victoriously to Washington, D.C. by train—and he now had a beard. 

“He climbed down and sat down with me on the edge of the station platform,” Grace later recalled. “‘Gracie,’ he said, ‘look at my whiskers. I have been growing them for you.’ Then he kissed me. I never saw him again.”

Westfield Chatauque Co NY
Oct 15-1860

Hon A B Lincoln

Dear Sir

My father has just home from the fair and brought home your picture and Mr. Hamlin’s. I am a little girl only 11 years old, but want you should be President of the United States very much so I hope you wont think me very bold to write to such a great man as you are. Have you any little girls about as large as I am if so give them my love and tell her to write to me if you cannot answer this letter. I have got 4 brothers and part of them will vote for you any way and if you let your whiskers grow I will try and get the rest of them to vote for you you would look a great deal better for your face is so thin. All the ladies like whiskers and they would tease their husbands to vote for you and then you would be President. My father is going to vote for you and if I was a man I would vote for you to but I will try to get every one to vote for you that I can I think that rail fence around your picture makes it look very pretty I have got a little baby sister she is nine weeks old and is just as cunning as can be. When you direct your letter direct to Grace Bedell Westfield Chautauqua County New York.

I must not write any more answer this letter right off Good bye

Grace Bedell

---

Springfield, Ill. Oct 19, 1860

Miss Grace Bedell

My dear little Miss

Your very agreeable letter of the 15th is received— 

I regret the necessity of saying I have no daughters— I have three sons— one seventeen, one nine, and one seven years of age— They, with their mother, constitute my whole family—

As to the whiskers, having never worn any, do you not think people would call it a piece of silly affectation if I were to begin it now?

Your very sincere well wisher

A. Lincoln

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