O, What a Pity

Isn't it a shame when a correspondence devolves into nothing? I had a mail-order pen-pal from Illinois in third grade. Rachel whose last name is lost in a swill of memories I can't reach, and I cherished our American Girl Dolls--such was the topic of our letters. Our dolls, our families, Christmas presents, details about vacations to boring places... We never really knew each other outside of our mothers' copyediting. One year, I forgot to send her a birthday card, and my mother admonished me for it--an early encounter with Emily Post. Not long after, Rachel and I stopped writing and my doll ended up in a plastic storage bin.

Dearest Reader,

I like letters. I like stationary and stamps and wax seals. I like black pens with sharp, dark ink. I like to assume certain qualities of my correspondents’ personalities, based on their penmanship. If you post your address, I will send a letter. A real letter. Throughout my life, I’ve maintained several “pen pals,” and am always in pursuit of another. It’s nice to receive things in the mail, besides bills (paid online), bank statements (available online), and the occasional care package from your mother.

The Complete Correspondence of Robert Lowell and Elizabeth Bishop will give a reader more insight into the lives of these poets than any biography, as the biographer abstracts his words from those letters. Alongside diaries, letters are the primary source (for the record, I also love diarists). Because one writes his memoir for an anonymous public, implicit is the motive: How will I present myself to the world? how do I want to be remembered? It is intrinsically, however unintentionally, deceptive. When, as in letters, the audience consists of the most intimate of friends, lovers, admirers, when one can address a primary person with the phrase “To my dearest ___,” and “To my beloved___,” the following prose will be equally dear. Ideally.

The epistolary novel, at its best, offers this closeness to its characters. Rather than the first person recounting his perception of a story (akin to the memoir) or an omniscient party offering his own spin, correspondence allows the most intimate details unfold. Unless the opposite is true. As in the case of Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, the reader must assume the protagonist’s honest intentions. Because every letter is addressed to Pamela’s conservative parents, and she receives few if any letters to contradict her recounts, it is practically impossible to gauge her sincerity. Henry Fielding jabs at Richardson’s effort, responding with the satire Shamela, cutting the narrative down from about 500 pages to a minimalist 40. Both Pamela and Shamela, in my humbly academic opinion, are hilarious—inadvertently and intentionally, respectively.

However entertaining I find 18th century faux-rape, it’s still kind of dull. What, after all, is the relevance of the 18th century novel when Chuck Palahniuk has a new book out? Let’s talk about someone a bit more interesting:

The impetus of Henry Miller’s memoir Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch is actually letter writing. After falling so far behind in his correspondence, Miller explains, he set out to write a single pamphlet to let his friends know what he’d been up to. Three years later, Voila! Miller published a well crafted, insightful book, bursting with advice to young writers, confessing all the insecurities and honesty one would only share with good friends. Some of my favorite wisdom includes: “Artist don’t thrive in colonies. Ants do,” and “When you can’t make money, make friends.” Also, Miller’s musings on parenting, water colors, Paris, and marijuana are priceless (or $16.95 by New Directions).

Fondly,
Miss Amanda Marie

P.s. Next time: Did you hear about the radioactive envelope glue from Mars?!

A Vicious Circle

e⋅pis⋅to⋅lar⋅y 
 /ɪˈpɪstlˌɛri/
–adjective
1.
contained in or carried on by letters: an epistolary friendship.
2.
of, pertaining to, or consisting of letters.



First, a dedication.

Amanda: To Samuel Richardson's scintillating, bawdy eighteenth-century 1,499 page epistolary masterpiece Clarissa, because it proves that I am dorkier than you. And everyone deserves to marry her rake rapist.

Jamie: My dedication goes out to a friend of mine who qualified solitary drinking with, "I was riding on the C-Line, there were people around me. Therefore, I wasn't drinking alone."

Speaking of rakes, I would like to point out that the Decemberists' new single "The Rake Song" can basically describe me better than any "about me" section on a self-aggregating online profile. I have no redeeming qualities, other than the irony of my last name, "Reich." I'm the oldest of two sisters. One of us is always "the Third Reich." My parents are cruel, cruel people. So don't judge me too harshly. I also think Humbert Humbert from Lolita is a fox. Go figure.

Amanda: I am decidedly boring. However, "Life, friends," according to poet-prophet John Berryman, "is boring." He continues: "We must not say so."

After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountain or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
-- John Berryman, Dream Songs, 14

And this sums up why I'm blogging. Because I have nothing to say, am bored with what others have to say, so I'll say that, directed dearly, to my sweetest, to my beloved, to my faceless internet audience. And I'll do so by quoting a poem I love, the great literature and Art I love, that bores me.

I am ignorant to contemporary writers and novelists, for I assume they will bore me. But of the 18th century British variety, I am well versed, which probably explains my boredom. So why do I write again? Mr. Orwell can speak for me, but I won't bother quoting because it'll probably be boring.

Jamie: This is also why I think our epistolary blogging will be rather fun to read; both of us having nothing to say, but we word it oh-so decidedly. And well. Maybe? Relatively?
Did I also mention that we both attend an art appreciation school? No, not an art school. An art appreciation school.

Sometimes, it's shocking to find how many people will speak without actually saying anything. My friendship with Amanda has been the opposite of that, despite my joking. Thank G-d. We sit around and drink profusely and read passages from our favorite books--she tends to gravitate towards the poets (because she'll have no career); I delineate and follow that new-fangled prose fiction (because I too will also never have a career). We're self-indulgent and aware of our habits, which seems arrogant to those on the outside, but are probably some of the most genuine I have ever experienced. We also aren't so far-fectched as to think that we aren't petty beings. I like joking about my libido. And exaggerating my college exploits. My friend Loaf once told me that if I had a Twitter, he would follow me on it. I'm not sure if that was a compliment or something else. I'll pray for the former.

Amanda: I also often jest of my libido. But mostly to my mother. Which sounds creepy. And I might delete that. But, if we're going to be honest, which, as any "writer" can/should attest, is rare. But what I'm trying to say, if I could ever be self-aware enough to know what I'm actually trying to say, is that I jest of my libido with my mother because I'm comfortable & honest with her. I am, in a word, myself. But who can use just a word? And who will listen to me? No one? Huzzah for the Blog!

Jamie: My mother is in the Jewish Mother's Mafia. I think that says everything. As does our first entry.