June 5, 2015
I’ve always wanted to write magnificent love letters and plenty of them and one of my greatest regrets is that I don’t know how; wired as I am to always be certain that words can make a difference, when it comes to laying my soul bare, I invariably end up coming across like a puppy desperately yapping for crumbles of affection: it’s painful to write and ridiculous to read.
For that alone I envy Leoš Janáček who after a failed marriage and a string of affairs fell in love with a married woman who was to become his muse. Not only did he compose music for her (which could well be considered the most sublime form of the love letter) he also wrote actual letters, over 700 of them over a period of ten years, sometimes daily. How he could wax poetic on love for someone who didn’t (but also did) want to hear about it is almost pathetic in its determination.
I also pity him. His music came at the cost of that unrequited, undefined relationship of ten years to another man’s wife — without fail a recipe for endless amounts of pain and deception — but especially the death of his daughter Olga: having three daughters of my own I can’t even bring myself to continue this sentence.
I think I’ll keep my missives in the desk drawer then: I am almost certain that I could never survive such affliction if it were the price to pay for writing the supreme love letter.
Perhaps there is no such thing.