Tag Archives: love letters

A little note to Everlane

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Hey Hart Beat. I just saw something adorable on Instagram and I had to share with you. Yesterday one of my favorite brands, Everlane, shared a letter exchange that they had with one of their customers. The brand posted the correspondence on their Instagram and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen in a while. The whole exchange reminds me of something my Grandfather would do. Four for you, Everlane!

The letter to Everlane:

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The letter from Everlane:

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Three photos via @Everlane.

John Steinbeck on Falling in Love

John Steinbeck on Falling in Love

Hi Hart Beat. How’s your night going? I haven’t written a lot of love notes to you recently but tonight I came across this amazing letter that John Steinbeck wrote to his eldest son Thom on the importance of waiting for love. Love has been on my mind a lot lately (hi Pedro) and the letter hit home on so many different levels.

John Steinbeck on Falling in Love

I love the last line of his letter, “Nothing good gets away.” I think that there is something so true to this, Hart Beat. I always think and tell my friends that the right thing or relationship is happening because it is happening. That’s not to say that things happen for a reason but, when things go smoothly there’s usually a reason. 

So what do you think, Hart Beat? Do you have someone you love in your life? If you do but you’re not together then I think you should take Steinbeck’s advice and tell them. He’s right, “there is no possible harm in saying so.”

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First — if you are in love — that’s a good thing — that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second — There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply — of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it — and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone — there is no possible harm in saying so — only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another — but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa

Falling in love

Top photo by Rennie Ellis and bottom source.

Writing love letters

Hi Hart Beat. I just wanted to check in and tell you about this great article published today on the official Free People blog. Guest author Kristen Hedges writes about the lost art of letter writing and I completely agree with her. Tonight I thought it would be sweet to read the article and share some of the beautiful images from the blog. What about you, Hart Beat? You written any love letters lately?

I love you to much for that. Too truly.

Hey Hart Beat. I have a letter for you to read tonight from my favorite website. Read it first and then we can talk.

January 21

Milan

I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential 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 stand-offish with you: I love you to much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it.

However I won’t bore you with any more.  

We have re-started, and the train is shaky again. I shall have to write at the stations – which are fortunately many across the Lombard plain.

Venice. The stations were many, but I didn’t bargain for the Orient Express not stopping at them. And here we are at Venice for ten minutes only, — a wretched time in which to try and write. Not time to buy an Italian stamp even, so this will have to go from Trieste.

The waterfalls in Switzerland were frozen into solid iridescent curtains of ice, hanging over the rock; so lovely. And Italy all blanketed in snow.

We’re going to start again. I shall have to wait till Trieste tomorrow morning. Please forgive me for writing such a miserable letter.

V.

Thanks Letters of Note. This letter was written by English novelist Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf. According to Letters of Note, Vita wrote the letter to Virginia while traveling by train back to her husband in Persia, and leaving her love behind.

The first paragraph just about kills me. Vita puts into words an ache that I think everyone must know from being in love. I can see too how traveling alone on a train can be isolating, I get the loneliest in transit too.

Diego and Frida

Hi lovelies. This week is a pretty sad week in Brooklyn since my beautiful roommate G. is moving out this weekend. I’m pretty bummed about it and on top of an all ready stressful time, I have to say goodbye for now to one of my best friends. Good think she’s going to be living in my room for the first week of June (hey G. hey).

 (Source)

Anyway, G. loves the artist Frida Kahlo so when I came across this letter that she wrote to her husband Diego Rivera (both pictured above), I knew I had to post it here for her. The letter is beautiful isn’t it? I love that it’s written on an envelope, a work of art and love in itself.

Diego, my love,

Remember that once you finish the fresco we will be together forever once and for all, without arguments or anything, only to love one another.

Behave yourself and do everything that Emmy Lou tells you.

I adore you more than ever. Your girl, Frida.

(Write me)

(Source for this letter and all others like it.)

Anais, I only thought I loved you before

Hi. I don’t have much to say other than you should really read this letter written by Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. It’s pretty long but, I promise it’s worth every word. It literally breathes love in the purist sense.

August 14, 1932

Anais:

Don’t expect me to be sane anymore. Don’t let’s be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes– you can’t dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can’t see how I can go on living away from you– these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can’t picture you moving about with him as you did with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old– you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one’s time to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madam Butterfly— “Some day he’ll come!”)

I still hear you singing in the kitchen– a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you’re happy in the kitchen and the meal you’re cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes. 

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that’s in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don’t find them– not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they’re singing “Heaven and Ocean” from La GiocondaI.)

I picture you playing the records over and over– Hugo’s records. “Parlez moi d amour.” The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can’t do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had come to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow not guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my note, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don’t begin. The walls are completely bare– I have taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out– where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We’re in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We’re journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and the strew our path with flowers. 

I say this is a wild dream– but it is a dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and delight of experience.

HVM

There. I’m devastated that it’s over and I have to stop typing Henry Millers beautiful and true words. I’m actually heartbroken it’s over. Maybe someday I’ll write a letter like this. Have a nice night, Hart Beat.

This letter, like the many posted here before it, comes from my favorite website “Letters of Note.”

A letter from Patti

Hi Hart Beat. How’s your Monday night going? I haven’t shared any letters from my favorite website “Letters of Note” in a while so, here’s one for you. For those of you who have read Patti Smith’s Just Kids then this letter won’t be brand new but for everyone else, I hope you like the lovely, emotional words that Patti writes to her New York City friend and soul mate, Robert.

Dear Robert,

Often as I lie awake I wonder if you are also lying awake. Are you in pain or feeling alone? You drew me from the darkest period of my young life, sharing with me the sacred mystery of what it is to be an artist. I learned to see through you and never compose a line or draw a curve that does not come from knowledge I derived in our precious time together. Your work, coming from a fluid source, can be traced to the naked song of your youth. You spoke then of holding hands with God. Remember, through everything, you have always held that hand, grip it hard, Robert, and don’t let go.


The other afternoon, when you fell asleep on my shoulder, I drifted off, too. But before I did, it occurred to me looking around at all of your things and your work and going through years of work in my mind, that of all your work, you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all. 


Patti


Patti and Robert via here.
For more of the story of this letter visit “Letters of Note.”

Another note from John to June

I’ve posted a couple of notes written from Johnny Cash to his wife June Carter. I love the way this man writes to June, so simple and so full of absolute love.

July 11 2003
Noon

I love June Carter, I do. Yes I do. I love June Carter I do. And she loves me.

But now she’s an angel and I’m not. Now she’s an angel and I’m not.
Of course, this letter, as well as most previously comes from the amazing site “Letters of Note.

On love, from Vincent Van Gogh

… Theo, I love her, her and no other, her forever.
And, and, and, Theo, although the “no, never, ever” still “seems”
to be in full sway, there is a feeling of someone
like redemption within me, and it is as if she
and I had stopped being two and were
united for all eternity.

Vincent Van Gogh from a letter to his brother, Theo

On love, from Vincent Van Gogh

… Theo, I love her, her and no other, her forever.
And, and, and, Theo, although the “no, never, ever” still “seems”
to be in full sway, there is a feeling of someone
like redemption within me, and it is as if she
and I had stopped being two and were
united for all eternity.

Vincent Van Gogh from a letter to his brother, Theo