samaelstjerne

𝖮𝖼𝗍𝗈𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝟣𝟩, 𝟣𝟫𝟦𝟨 𝖣’𝖠𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾, 𝖨 𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.

I know how much you like to hear that—I wrote it not only because you like it—I write it because it makes me warm, all over inside, to write it to you.

It indeed has been long since I wrote to you—almost two years. But knowing you, I’m sure you’ll excuse me. You know how I am, my dear, so 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, for 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.

If I were to be honest, I find it hard to understand, in my mind, what it means to love you after you are dead, yet I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love and take care for me as well.

I want to have problems to discuss with you, I want to do little projects with you, still. Never had it crossed my mind we could do that, to learn to make clothes together—or learn Chinese—or to get a movie projector.

Can’t I do something now? No. I am alone without you, my darling. You were the ideal woman, general instigator of all our wild adventures.

When you were sick, you worried you could not give me something that you wanted to, and thought I needed. You needn’t have worried. There was no real need, for I have loved you in so many ways, and I can see it clearly now, 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 at the same time, I want you there. You, dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.

I know, you will assure me that I am foolish, that you want me to have full happiness, and you don’t want to stand in my way. I’ll bet you are surprised to know 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, very nice ones, even—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, my wife, I do adore you. My wife, whom I loved dearly, is dead.

Rich.

P.S. Please excuse me for not mailing this, my darling, I don’t know your new address.

Samael Posted first in @SHllXUN In rememberance of Scarlet Hellstrøm [Wednesday, November 11th, 2020. 04:09 AM.]

W/N: this writing's origin is a letter from Richard Feynman’s letter to his departed wife, paraphrased accordingly to the writer’s interpretations.

️️𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖶𝗈𝗈𝗅𝖿 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾-𝖶𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝟧𝟤 𝖳𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝖲𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖳𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝟤𝟨, 𝟣𝟫𝟤𝟨

Your letter from Trieste came this morning—but why is it that you think I don't feel, or that I make phrases? Those ‘lovely phrases’ you say, which rob things of reality? Just the opposite, Vita; Always, always, always I try to say what I feel.

Will you then believe me, that after you went out last Tuesday—exactly a week ago—that I travelled into the slums of Bloomsbury, only to find a barrel organ? Alas, it did not make me cheerful. And nothing important has happened ever since—life has somehow became dull, and damp.

Lovely phrases? I have been dull, Vita. I have missed you. I do miss you. I shall miss you. And if you don't believe it, you’re a longeared owl and ass.

Somehow, as you get further away, I become less able to visualize you; and think of you with backgrounds of camels and pyramids, which made me a little shy.

Then you will board on a ship: Captains and gold lace, of portholes and planks. Then Bombay. Then Gertrude Bell, Baghdad—but we'll leave that be, and concentrate upon the present.

What have I done, Vita? Imagine a poor wretch sent back to school. I have been very industrious. For one thing, you must have disorganised my domesticity, so that directly you went, a torrent of duties discharged themselves on top of me.

Every time I get inside a shop, all the dust in my soul rises and just how can I write?

To tell you the truth, I have been very excited, writing. I have never written so fast [To the Lighthouse]. It may be illusion, but here I am rung up: Grizzle barks, settles in again—it is a soft blue evening, and the lights are being lit in Southampton Row.

I may tell you that when I saw crocuses in the Sqre yesterday, I thought, May: Vita.

But its true I write rather quick—all in a splash; then feel, thank God, that’s it.

But one thing—I will not let you make me such an egoist. After all, why don't we talk about your writing? Why is it always mine, mine, and mine? For this reason, I expect—that after all you're abundant in so many ways, and I, ️️ ️️ a mere pea tied to a stick.

Do you see how closely I am writing? That is because I want to say a great many things, yet not to bore you, and I think, if I write with little to no space in between, Vita won't see how long this letter is, and she won't be bored.

Have I seen anyone? Yes. A great numerous people, but mostly for business purposes. Oh, the grind of the Press has been rather roaring in my ears. So many manuscripts to read, poems to set up, and letters to write, and Doris Daglish to tea.

Now Vita's getting bored in Bombay; but it’s a bald, prosaic place, full of apes and rocks. I think: please tell me; you can't think how, being a clever woman, as we admit, ️️️️ I make every fragment you tell me bloom and blossom in my mind.

As for the people I've seen, I've fallen in love with none—but thats not exactly my line. Did you guess that? I'm not cold; not a humbug; not weakly; not sentimental.

What I am; I want you to tell me.

Write, dearest Vita, the letters you make up in the train. I will answer everything. Couldn't you write me lots more letters and post them at odd stations as you pass through?

But of course, to return to your letter, I always knew about your standoffishness. Only I said to myself, I insist upon kindness. With this aim in view, I came to Long Barn.

Open the top button of your jersey and you will see, nestling inside, a lively squirrel, with the most inquisitive habits, but a dear creature all the same—

Your Virginia

Are you perfectly well? Tell me. ⠀ Samael Posted first in @SHllXUN [Friday, November 6th, 2020. 12:35 PM.]

W/N: this thread’s origin is fragments from The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, altered selectively to the writer’s predilection.

𝖥𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖲𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾-𝖶𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖶𝗈𝗈𝗅𝖿 𝖬𝗂𝗅𝖺𝗇 [𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾] 𝖳𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗒 𝟤𝟣, 𝟣𝟫𝟤𝟨

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I cannot seem to choose the right phrase to express how profound I feel. I’ve composed you a prepossessing letter, in the midst of night, and.. it has all gone. I just miss you, in the most desperately human way.

You, and your extensive choice of words, would never write a phrase so elementary such as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel the same way, yet the insolent such as I believe you might.

You’d clothe yours with a much exquisite expressions that it’d lose a little of its reality; whereas with me, I’m quite plain. I miss you more than I presumed; and believe me, I was prepared to miss you immensely.

This letter is just.. a squeal of pain, contrary to what I first intended. It is incredible how significant to me you have become.

I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature. I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this—but oh my dear, I can’t be clever and standoffish with you.  I love you too much for that. Too sincere.

You have no idea how standoffish I can be with people I don’t love. I have proved myself adept in doing so. But you, Virginia, have broken down my defences. And I don’t begrudge it.

Please forgive me, Virginia, for I have produced such a grievous oeuvre.

V.

Samael Posted first in @SHllXUN [Friday, November 6th, 2020. 06:26 AM.]

W/N: this writing’s origin is fragments from The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, paraphrased accordingly to the writer’s interpretations.