When you write a letter to just one person (or a note, or else), there's a bond of two parties sharing a secret, and it draws you together if you know what to look for. Maybe that's what makes books of correspondence between two lovers so salacious and gratifying: we're party to a lovely enigma built over a lifetime of tiny unintentional secrets. We get to piece together the terrible force that dominated their lives and drove them to such unthinkable joy. We're their lovers, too, then.
And yet: we never do think, when we wrote these things to each other, that anyone would read them, and love us, and ache.
No comments:
Post a Comment