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January 23, 1935 My darling Clemmie, In your letter from Madras you wrote some words very dear to me, about my having enriched your life. I cannot tell you what pleasure this gave me, because I always feel so overwhelmingly in your debt, if there can be accounts in love.... What it has been to me to live all these years in your heart and companionship no phrases can convey. Time passes swiftly, but is it not joyous to see how great and growing is the treasure we have gathered together, amid the storms and stresses of so many eventful and to millions tragic and terrible years? Your loving husband (Winston Churchill) ---------------------------------------------------------------- A Mother's Love A mother's love determines howWe love ourselves and others.There is no sky we'll ever seeNot lit by that first love. Stripped of love, the universeWould drive us mad with pain;But we are born into a worldThat greets our cries with joy. How much I owe you for the kissThat told me who I was!The greatest gift--a love of life--Lay laughing in your eyes. Because of you my world still hasThe soft grace of your smile;And every wind of fortune bearsThe scent of your caress. Nicholas Gordon ---------------------------------------------------------------- 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. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Dear Son: As I write this letter you are four years old and still struggling with your alphabet. It will be years before you can read this and the other letters I have written to you. But as you grow and mature I can’t help but reflect on the small steps you are taking, the experiences you are having for the very first time, experiences that will reverberate throughout your life. I am an older father than most and it is possible that I may not be there to answer some of the questions you will have about life when you are grown. These letters are not a substitute for experience. You will make your own choices and mistakes and know you own failures and triumphs, but I do hope they will serve as something of a guide, from your father who loves you and who has written them to help you understand a little bit about the world you are now living in as a man. Each night, after I finish reading to you and tuck you into bed, I tell you I love you and wait for you to tell me you love me too. I stand and walk toward the door and pause and maybe say it one more time until you say it back to me, “I love you too Papa.” Only then can I turn out the light and walk to the kitchen and sit for a while and reflect on the day and prepare myself for bed. I’ve asked you what you think love is and you tell me you don’t know. But yesterday as you were preparing to leave for an overnight visit with your aunt and uncle you stopped at the door to tell me you would be sending me a kiss that night, and that your kiss would have wings and it would find me. I stood at the top of the stairs until the sound of your footsteps had passed, then to the window to catch a glimpse of you walking slowly but purposefully toward the train station with your small hand reaching up to hold your mother’s and your backpack bouncing from your shoulders, carrying your bear and your favorite blanket, precious cargo, things I am quite certain you love even if you don’t yet understand the word that describes this feeling. A few days ago I was speaking with a friend and we got to talking about faith and what we did or didn’t believe and when she asked me what I believed I told her, without really thinking about it: Love. The truth is I had been thinking about it long before our conversation. I don’t know if there is a God or if the life we find ourselves living is the beginning or the end or some step or process of grand design. Wiser men than me have debated the subject for thousands of years and people believe what they believe. I believe in love. Love is one of those words that are used so often and in so many contexts that it’s meaning is very difficult to discern. Romantic love, love for your country, your God, your family, your fellow man; there are so many forms that love can take that it just isn’t possible for one word to embrace them all. But it is all we have. So what do I mean when I say I love you each night before you go to sleep? And what do I mean when I say that love is what I believe? I suppose I mean that love is the only thing that can take me outside myself, to a place where the object of my love means more to me than my own comfort or safety or selfish concerns. That’s a rather clinical definition perhaps and there is much more to love than that, but it is at least part of the story of love to me. The other parts are just as important but harder to explain. How does one describe the bond of love? That is another side of love, a side that hurts at times. I pause at your doorway because I need to hear those words. When you are just a bit older you will begin to experience love in some of its different forms and the one we call romantic love is perhaps the most difficult of them all. I spent much of my youth searching for love and loosing it and starting over again. I remember when I was much younger a friend was giving me advice on how to deal with girls. He told me never to be the first to say, “I love you” because if you did the girl would have the upper hand in the relationship. I expect the girls were saying much the same thing to each other. There was also the fear that if you professed your love, you might precipitate the end of the relationship because then the other person would either have to confirm their love for you or admit that they didn’t feel the same way. As a result relationships often drift, neither person confirming or denying the existence of love, until eventually the emptiness of it all brings about the ending. Romantic love is still a mystery to me, even after all these years. Your mother and I were fortunate, we found each other at a time in our lives when we were both ready for a relationship built around commitment and trust and so our love has survived. I’ve read stories of people who fall in love with their high school sweethearts and remain with that one person for their entire lives. I’ve read about such people but I’ve never met one. I’m not saying they don’t exist, but I believe they are the exception rather than the rule. It is more often the case that you will experience your share of disappointments in romantic relationships and there is nothing wrong with that. Sometimes it happens that a person may express love for you, but you may not feel love in return. Feelings are very tender things and if someone decides you are worthy of their love they are taking a risk, a risk they may not fully realize at the time. When we are young and inexperienced with love we don’t expect that our love may not be returned, we assume it will be, but we are often wrong. As with many things, like riding a bike or learning to tie our shoes or reading, we don’t come into life with our heads full of knowledge. We learn things by experiencing the world and by failing. Keep in mind, when you discover that someone has feelings for you, that this other person may not understand completely what they are offering or the consequences of their trust. One can easily fall into a relationship without even knowing it. It will be exciting when you first learn you are the object of another’s affections – that is entirely normal – but if you decide to walk away from someone, from someone who loves you and with whom you have shared something approximating love, or the motions of love, the steps or acts or symbols of love, it will be painful for them. That pain may diminish over time, it may even be forgotten, but it hurts no less for the fact that it will pass. That said; don’t be afraid to express your love. Even with the disappointments, love is worth the risk because without it all the work and struggle of life mean very little. You are a sensitive boy and I expect you will grow up to be a sensitive man. I hope you are also the kind of person who will let his conscience and good judgment guide him. I hope you know great love in your life son, and if you are very lucky, you might one day have a child of your own. Then you will better understand what this letter is all about and a great deal more about love, more than I can ever describe with mere words. I love you, Papa Richard Dooley ---------------------------------------------------------------- Christ Church, Oxford, October 28, 1876 My Dearest Gertrude: You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some medicine. for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the face." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's your nose that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he knows agreat deal." I said, "No, it isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the hair." Then he looked rather grave, and said, "Now I understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the pianoforte." "No, indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the hair: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much. Do you think it's in the lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!" Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only one?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her any more till your lips are quite restedagain." "But what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would someday give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way." Lewis Carroll ---------------------------------------------------------------- She Walks in Beauty She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies:And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the lessHad half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face:Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow,But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent! Lord Byron (1788-1824)