letters

As he slept upstairs on September 8th of 1908, two young burglars entered Mark Twain's home, took an entire sideboard into the garden and proceeded to break it open. They were eventually caught by police with a stash of silverware. The next day, with the help of an aspiring young artist named Dorothy Sturgis, Twain produced the following note for the attention of future burglars. From that day on, it was permanently attached to his front door. Transcript follows. Image kindly supplied by Stanley Gould. Transcript

NOTICE. To the next Burglar. There is nothing but plated ware in this house, now and henceforth. You will find it in that brass thing in the dining-room over in the corner by the basket of kittens. If you want the basket, put the kittens in the brass thing. Do not make a noise — it disturbs the family. You will find rubbers in the front hall, by that thing which has the umbrellas in it, chiffonier, I think they call it, or pergola, or something like that. Please close the door when you go away! Very truly yours, S.L. Clemens

In 1791, riled by a recent review that criticised a supposed abundance of "obscure language" and "imperfect grammar" in his poetry, celebrated Scottish poet Robert Burns channelled his anger and wrote the following magnificent letter to the critic responsible. It really is a thing of beauty. (Source: The Works of Robert Burns, Volume 4; Image: Robert Burns, courtesy of the BBC.)

Ellisland, 1791. Dear Sir: Thou eunuch of language; thou Englishman, who never was south the Tweed; thou servile echo of fashionable barbarisms; thou quack, vending the nostrums of empirical elocution; thou marriage-maker between vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice; thou cobler, botching the flimsy socks of bombast oratory; thou blacksmith, hammering the rivets of absurdity; thou butcher, embruing thy hands in the bowels of orthography; thou arch-heretic in pronunciation; thou pitch-pipe of affected emphasis; thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints of jarring sentences; thou squeaking dissonance of cadence; thou pimp of gender; thou Lyon Herald to silly etymology; thou antipode of grammar; thou executioner of construction; thou brood of the speech-distracting builders of the Tower of Babel; thou lingual confusion worse confounded; thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax; thou scavenger of mood and tense; thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning; thou ignis fatuus, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance; thou pickle-herring in the puppet-show of nonsense; thou faithful recorder of barbarous idiom; thou persecutor of syllabication; thou baleful meteor, foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus. R.B.

In September of 1988, Salman Rushdie's fourth novel, The Satanic Verses, was published in the UK to both critical acclaim and immediate controversy. By February of 1989, following months of protests and death threats, his execution was ordered by way of a fatwā issued by the Supreme Leader of Iran, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Rushdie was then put under police guard, and he went into hiding. The controversy continues to this day. In the early 1990s, as the furore raged, the following letter of support was written to Rushdie by novelist Norman Mailer. (Source: The Rushdie Letters; Image: Salman Rushdie in 1988. Source.)

Dear Salman Rushdie, I have thought of you often over the last few years. Many of us begin writing with the inner temerity that if we keep searching for the most dangerous of our voices, why then, sooner or later we will outrage something fundamental in the world. and our lives will be in danger. That is what I thought when I started out, and so have many others, but you, however, are the only one of us who gave proof that this intimation was not ungrounded. Now you live what must me a living prison of contained paranoia, and the toughening of the will is imperative, no matter the cost to the poetry in yourself. It is no happy position for a serious and talented writer to become a living martyr. One does not need that. It is hard enough to write at one's best without wearing a hundred pounds on one's back each day, but such is your condition, and if I were a man who believed that prayer was productive of results, I might wish to send some sort of vigor and encouragement to you, for if you can transcend this situation, more difficult than any of us have known, if you can come up with a major piece of literary work, then you will rejuvenate all of us, and literature, to that degree, will flower. So, my best to you, old man, wherever you are ensconced, and may the muses embrace you. Cheers, Norman Mailer

British-born David Ogilvy was one of the original, and greatest, "ad men." In 1948, he started what would eventually be known as Ogilvy & Mather, the Manhattan-based advertising agency that has since been responsible for some of the world's most iconic ad campaigns, and in 1963 he even wrote Confessions of an Advertising Man, the best-selling book that is still to this day considered essential reading for all who enter the industry. Time magazine called him "the most sought-after wizard in today's advertising industry" in the early-'60s; his name, and that of his agency, have been mentioned more than once in Mad Men for good reason. With all that in mind, being able to learn of his routine when producing the very ads that made his name is an invaluable opportunity. The fascinating letter below, written by Ogilvy in 1955 to a Mr. Ray Calt, offers exactly that. (Source: The Unpublished David Ogilvy: A Selection of His Writings from the Files of His Partners; Image: David Ogilvy, courtesy of Ads of the World.)

April 19, 1955 Dear Mr. Calt: On March 22nd you wrote to me asking for some notes on my work habits as a copywriter. They are appalling, as you are about to see: 1. I have never written an advertisement in the office. Too many interruptions. I do all my writing at home. 2. I spend a long time studying the precedents. I look at every advertisement which has appeared for competing products during the past 20 years. 3. I am helpless without research material—and the more "motivational" the better. 4. I write out a definition of the problem and a statement of the purpose which I wish the campaign to achieve. Then I go no further until the statement and its principles have been accepted by the client. 5. Before actually writing the copy, I write down ever concievable fact and selling idea. Then I get them organized and relate them to research and the copy platform. 6. Then I write the headline. As a matter of fact I try to write 20 alternative headlines for every advertisement. And I never select the final headline without asking the opinion of other people in the agency. In some cases I seek the help of the research department and get them to do a split-run on a battery of headlines. 7. At this point I can no longer postpone the actual copy. So I go home and sit down at my desk. I find myself entirely without ideas. I get bad-tempered. If my wife comes into the room I growl at her. (This has gotten worse since I gave up smoking.) 8. I am terrified of producing a lousy advertisement. This causes me to throw away the first 20 attempts. 9. If all else fails, I drink half a bottle of rum and play a Handel oratorio on the gramophone. This generally produces an uncontrollable gush of copy. 10. The next morning I get up early and edit the gush. 11. Then I take the train to New York and my secretary types a draft. (I cannot type, which is very inconvenient.) 12. I am a lousy copywriter, but I am a good editor. So I go to work editing my own draft. After four or five editings, it looks good enough to show to the client. If the client changes the copy, I get angry—because I took a lot of trouble writing it, and what I wrote I wrote on purpose. Altogether it is a slow and laborious business. I understand that some copywriters have much greater facility. Yours sincerely, D.O.

July, 1922. In the final paragraph of an otherwise unremarkable letter to his editor, Maxwell Perkins, author F. Scott Fitzgerald passionately announces his desire to begin writing "something extraordinary and beautiful and simple and intricately patterned." The novel he had mentioned for the first time was The Great Gatsby. Transcript follows. Image kindly supplied by Gareth M. Transcript

Dear Mr. Perkins: Glad you liked the addenda to the Table of Contents. I feel quite confident the book will go. How do you think The Love Legend will sell? You'll be glad to know that nothing has come of the movie idea & I'm rather glad myself. At present working on my play — the same one. Trying to arrange for an Oct. production in New York. Bunny Wilson (Edmund Wilson Jr.) says that it's without doubt the best American comedy to date (that's just between you and me.) Did you see that in that Literary Digest contest I stood 6th among the novelists? Not that it matters. I suspect you of having been one of the voters. Will you see that the semi-yearly account is mailed to me by the 1st of the month — or before if it is ready? I want to see where I stand. I want to write something new — something extraordinary and beautiful and simple & intricately patterned. As Usual (Signed, 'F Scott Fitzgerald')

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In April of 1985, in a misguided attempt to revitalise the brand, The Coca-Cola Company stunned millions by announcing their decision to change the formula of Coca-Cola. Almost as soon as "New Coke" was unveiled, the backlash began, and in fact the reaction was so negative that within three months the old formula had been reintroduced. On hearing rumours of Coca-Cola's initial change of formula, the ecstatic CEO of PepsiCo, Roger Enrico, sensed a misstep and pounced. He sent the following celebratory letter to all staff. It was then displayed as a full-page ad in the New York Times. (Source: The Real Coke, the Real Story; Image: Guardian.)

April 21, 1985 To all Pepsi Bottlers and Pepsi-Cola Company personnel: It gives me great pleasure to offer each of you my heartiest congratulations. After 87 years of going at it eyeball to eyeball, the other guy just blinked. Coca-Cola is withdrawing their products from the marketplace, and is reformulating brand Coke to be "more like Pepsi." Too bad Ripley's not around...he could have had a field day with this one. There is no question the long-term market success of Pepsi has forced this move. Everyone knows when something is right it doesn't need changing. Maybe they finally realized what most of us have known for years: Pepsi tastes better than Coke. Well, people in trouble tend to do desperate things...and we'll have to keep our eye on them. But for now, I say victory is sweet, and we have earned a celebration. We're going to declare a holiday on Friday. Enjoy! Best Regards, Roger Enrico President, Chief Executive Officer Pepsi-Cola USA

On April 14th of 1851, Dora Dickens, the ninth child of Charles Dickens and his wife, Catherine, died unexpectedly after suffering convulsions. She was just 8-months-old. The next morning, Charles wrote the following letter to Catherine — miles away from home recuperating from an illness, oblivious to the situation  —  and, in an effort to break the news gently, delicately informed her that their daughter was gravely ill and to expect the worst. Catherine returned home the next day. (Source: The Letters of Charles Dickens, 1850-1852; Image: Charles Dickens, aged 49, courtesy of The Telegraph.)

Devonshire Terrace Tuesday Morning Fifteenth April 1851 My dearest Kate. Now observe. You must read this letter, very slowly and carefully. If you have hurried on thus far without quite understanding (apprehending some bad news), I rely on your turning back, and reading again. Little Dora, without being in the least pain, is suddenly stricken ill. She awoke out of a sleep, and was seen, in one moment, to be very ill. Mind! I will not deceive you. I think her very ill. There is nothing in her appearance but perfect rest. You would suppose her quietly asleep. But I am sure she is very ill, and I cannot encourage myself with much hope of her recovery. I do not—and why should I say I do, to you my dear!—I do not think her recovery at all likely. I do not like to leave home. I can do nothing here, but I think it right to stay here. You will not like to be away, I know, and I cannot reconcile it to myself to keep you away. Forster with his usual affection for us comes down to bring you this letter and to bring you home. But I cannot close it without putting the strongest entreaty and injunction upon you to come with perfect composure—to remember what I have often told you, that we never can expect to be exempt, as to our many children, from the afflictions of other parents—and that if—if—when you come, I should even have to say to you "Our little baby is dead", you are to do your duty to the rest, and to shew yourself worthy of the great trust you hold in them. If you will only read this, steadily, I have a perfect confidence in your doing what is right. Ever affectionately, Charles Dickens

In May of 1962, 37-year-old Malcolm Scott Carpenter became just the second American to orbit the Earth, as he piloted the Aurora 7 into space. On the eve of this historic journey, his father, Marion, proudly wrote him the following wonderful letter. (Source: For Spacious Skies; Image: A photo of Earth, taken by Scott Carpenter during the Mercury-Atlas 7 mission in July of 1962. Source.)

M. Scott Carpenter Palmer Lake Colorado Dear Son, Just a few words on the eve of your great adventure for which you have trained yourself and anticipated for so long — to let you know that we all share it with you, vicariously. As I think I remarked to you at the outset of the space program, you are privileged to share in a pioneering project on a grand scale — in fact the grandest scale yet known to man. And I venture to predict that after all the huzzas have been uttered and the public acclaim is but a memory, you will derive the greatest satisfaction from the serene knowledge that you have discovered new truths. You can say to yourself: this I saw, this I experienced, this I know to be the truth. This experience is a precious thing; it is known to all researchers, in whatever field of endeavour, who have ventured into the unknown and have discovered new truths. You are probably aware that I am not a particularly religious person, at least in the sense of embracing any of the numerous formal doctrines. Yet I cannot conceive of a man endowed with intellect, perceiving the ordered universe about him, the glory of the mountain top, the plumage of a tropical bird, the intricate complexity of a protein molecule, the utter and unchanging perfection of a salt crystal, who can deny the existence of some higher power. Whether he chooses to call it God or Mohammed or Buddha or Torquoise Woman or the Law of Probability matters little. I find myself in my writings frequently calling upon Mother Nature to explain things and citing Her as responsible for the order of the universe. She is a very satisfactory divinity for me. And so I shall call upon Her to watch over you and guard you and, if she so desires, share with you some of Her secrets which She is usually so ready to share with those who have high purpose. With all my love, Dad

Author Douglas Adams had been trying for many years to bring The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy to the big screen when, in December of 1997, a deal was made with Disney to do exactly that. Initially Adams was understandably delighted, but by April of 1999 — after multiple rewrites of his screenplay in response to minimal, unproductive communications with Disney executive David Vogel — he had become incredibly frustrated with the project's progress. During the return flight of a fruitless trip to L.A. that month, close to boiling point, Adams expertly wrote the following letter to Vogel, complete with a comically long list of ways for him to get in touch. The letter worked, and a productive meeting between the two subsequently took place. Sadly, Douglas Adams passed away a couple of years later, three years before the finished movie was released. (Source: The Salmon of Doubt, via Lee Kemp; Image: Douglas Adams, courtesy of the Guardian.)

Douglas Adams 48 Bloomsbury Terrace London, Nl-6TS April 14, 1999 David Vogel Walt Disney Pictures Dear David, I've tried to reach you by phone a couple of times. Perhaps it would have helped if I'd explained why I was calling: I was in the States for a few days and thought it might be helpful if I came across to L.A. so that you and I could have a meeting. I didn't hear from you, so I'm on a plane back to England, where I'm typing this. We seem to have gotten to a place where the problems appear to loom larger than the opportunities. I don't know if I'm right in thinking this, but I only have silence to go on, which is always a poor source of information. It seems to me that we can either slip into the traditional stereotypes — you're the studio executive who has a million real-world problems to worry about, and I'm the writer who only cares about seeing his vision realised and hang the cost and consequences — or we can recognise that we both share the same goal, which is to make the most successful movie we possibly can. The fact that we may have different perspectives on how this can best be achieved should be a fertile source of debate and iterative problem solving. It's not clear to me that a one-way traffic of written "notes" interspersed with long, dreadful silences is a good substitute for this. You have a great deal of experience nursing major motion pictures into existence. I have a great deal of experience of nursing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy into existence in every medium other than motion pictures. I'm sure you must feel frustrated that I don't seem to understand the range of problems you have to contend with, just as I feel frustrated that I haven't had any real creative dialogue with Disney about this project yet. I have a suggestion to make: Why don't we actually meet and have a chat? I could be in L.A. for next Monday (4/19) or early the following week. I would invite Disney to bear the cost of this extra trip over. I've appended a list of numbers you can reach me on. If you manage not to reach me, I shall know you're trying not to, very, very hard indeed. Best wishes, Douglas Adams Email: dna@tdv.com Assistant (Sophie Astin) (and voicemail): 555 171 555 1700 (between 10 A.M. and 6:00 P.M. British Summertime) Office fax: 555 171 555 1701 Home (no voicemail): 555 171 555 3632 Home fax: 555 171 555 5601 UK cell phone (and voicemail): 555 410 555 098 US cellphone (and voicemail): (310) 555 555 6769 Other home (France): 555 4 90 7239 23 Jane Belson (wife) (office): 555 171 555 4715 Film agent (US) Bob Bookman: (310) 5554545 Book agent (UK) Ed Victor (office): 555 171 555 4100 (UK office hours) Book agent (UK) Ed Victor (office): 555 171 555 4112 Book agent (UK) Ed Victor (home): 555 171 555 3030 Producer: Roger Birnbaum: (818) 555 2637 Director: Jay Roach (Everyman Pictures): (323) 555i3585 Jay Roach (home): (310) 555 5903 Jay Roach (cellphone): (310) 555 0279, Shauna Robertson (Everyman Pictures): (323) 555 3585 Shauna Robertson, home: (310) 555 7352 Shauna Robertson, cellphone: (310) 555 8357 Robbie Stamp, Executive Producer (UK) (office): 555 171 555 1707 Robbie Stamp, Executive Producer (UK) (home): 555 181 555 1672, Robbie Stamp, Executive Producer (UK) (cell phone): 555 7885 55 8397 Janet Thrift (mother) (UK): 555 19555 62527 Jane Garnier (sister) (UK) (work): 555 1300 555 684 Jane Garnier (sister) (UK) (home): 555 1305 555 034 Jakki Kelloway (daughter's nanny) (UK): 555 171 555 5602 Angus Deayton & Lise Meyer (next-door neighbours who can take a message) (UK): Work: 555 (145) 555 0464, Home: 555 (171) 555 0855: Restaurants I might conceivably be at: The Ivy (UK): 555 171 555 4751 The Groucho Club (UK): 555 171 555 4685 Granita (UK): 555 171 555 3222, Sainsbury's (supermarket where I shop; they can always page me): 555 171 555 1789 Website forum www.douglasadams.com/forum

In 1936, in the midst of an unrelenting workload and the near-demise of his marriage of 50 years, legendary landscape photographer Ansel Adams suffered a nervous breakdown. After a stay in hospital, desperately in need of escape, Adams then returned with his family to the one place where he could find solace: Yosemite, California. Some months later, as his health returned, he wrote the following beautiful letter to his best friend, Cedric Wright. (Source: Letters of a Nation; Image: Ansel Adams in Yosemite, California, c.1942, courtesy of ck/ck.)

June 19, 1937 Dear Cedric, A strange thing happened to me today. I saw a big thundercloud move down over Half Dome, and it was so big and clear and brilliant that it made me see many things that were drifting around inside of me; things that related to those who are loved and those who are real friends. For the first time I know what love is; what friends are; and what art should be. Love is a seeking for a way of life; the way that cannot be followed alone; the resonance of all spiritual and physical things. Children are not only of flesh and blood — children may be ideas, thoughts, emotions. The person of the one who is loved is a form composed of a myriad mirrors reflecting and illuminating the powers and thoughts and the emotions that are within you, and flashing another kind of light from within. No words or deeds may encompass it. Friendship is another form of love — more passive perhaps, but full of the transmitting and acceptance of things like thunderclouds and grass and the clean granite of reality. Art is both love and friendship, and understanding; the desire to give. It is not charity, which is the giving of Things, it is more than kindness which is the giving of self. It is both the taking and giving of beauty, the turning out to the light the inner folds of the awareness of the spirit. It is the recreation on another plane of the realities of the world; the tragic and wonderful realities of earth and men, and of all the inter-relations of these. I wish the thundercloud had moved up over Tahoe and let loose on you; I could wish you nothing finer. Ansel

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Young novelist William Saroyan dreamed of one day editing a magazine, and so in 1936 sought advice on that very aspiration from the great H. L. Mencken, a hugely influential man who had, in the 1920s, founded and edited his own title. Saroyan sent him a polite letter. Mencken responded with the priceless reply seen below. (Source: The New Mencken Letters; Image: H.L. Mencken, courtesy of Enoch Pratt Free Library.)

25 January, 1936 San Fransisco, California Dear Saroyan, I note what you say about your aspiration to edit a magazine. I am sending you by this mail a six-chambered revolver. Load it and fire every one into your head. You will thank me after you get to hell and learn from other editors there how dreadful their job was on earth. (Signed, 'H.L. Mencken')

In 1969, Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Anne Sexton wrote the following, overwhelmingly heartfelt letter to her 15-year-old daughter, Linda, after battling mental illness for much of her adult life; a battle, in fact, that saw her take up poetry on the advice of her therapist. Sadly, just five years after this emotional missive was penned, Anne took her own life. She was 45-years-old. (Source: Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters; Image: Anne Sexton reading with her daughters, Linda and Joyce. Source.)

Wed — 2:45 P.M. Dear Linda, I am in the middle of a flight to St. Louis to give a reading. I was reading a New Yorker story that made me think of my mother and all alone in the seat I whispered to her "I know, Mother, I know." (Found a pen!) And I thought of you — someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me. And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won't be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) — I want to say back. 1st, I love you. 2. You never let me down 3. I know. I was there once. I too, was 40 and with a dead mother who I needed still. This is my message to the 40-year-old Linda. No matter what happens you were always my bobolink, my special Linda Gray. Life is not easy. It is awfully lonely. I know that. Now you too know it — wherever you are, Linda, talking to me. But I've had a good life — I wrote unhappy — but I lived to the hilt. You too, Linda — Live to the HILT! To the top. I love you, 40-year old Linda, and I love what you do, what you find, what you are! — Be your own woman. Belong to those you love. Talk to my poems, and talk to your heart — I'm in both: if you need me. I lied, Linda. I did love my mother and she loved me. She never held me but I miss her, so that I have to deny I ever loved her — or she me! Silly Anne! So there! XOXOXO Mom

In Novemeber of 1958, John Steinbeck — the renowned author of, most notably, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, and Of Mice and Men — received a letter from his eldest son, Thom, who was attending boarding school. In it, the teenager spoke of Susan, a young girl with whom he believed he had fallen in love. Steinbeck replied the same day. His beautiful letter of advice can be enjoyed below. (Source: Steinbeck: A Life in Letters; Image: Thom and John Steinbeck with their father in 1954, courtesy of UC Berkeley.)

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

In May of 1872, having recently travelled twice to watch Aida, a disappointed Italian gentleman named Prospero Bertani decided to write a letter of complaint to the opera's composer, Verdi, and ask for his money back; not just for the show, but for his expenses too. Amused, Verdi responded by forwarding the letter to his publisher, Giulio Ricordi, with instructions. The chain of correspondence can be seen below, along with a written promise from Bertani never to watch the opera again. To Bertrani's dismay, Verdi later arranged for his letter of complaint to be published in a number of Italian newspapers. (Source: Verdi's Aida: The History of an Opera in Letters and Documents; Image: Village Vault) Verdi to his publisher, Giulio Ricordi:

St. Agata, 10 May 1872 Dear Giulio, Yesterday I received from Reggio a letter which is so amusing that I am sending it to you, asking you to carry out the commission I am about to give you. Here is the letter:

Reggio, 7 May 1872 Much honored Signor Verdi, On the second of this month, attracted by the sensation your opera Aida was making, I went to Parma. Half an hour before the performance began I was already in my seat, No. 120. I admired the scenery, listened with great pleasure to the excellent singers, and took great pains to let nothing escape me. After the performance was over, I asked myself whether I was satisfied. The answer was in the negative. I returned to Reggio and, on the way back in the railroad carriage, I listened to the verdicts of my fellow travellers. Nearly all of them agreed that Aida was a work of the highest rank. Thereupon I conceived a desire to hear it again, and so on the forth I returned to Parma. I made the most desperate efforts to obtain a reserved seat, and there was such a crowd that I had to spend 5 lire to see the performance in comfort. I came to the following conclusion: the opera contains absolutely nothing thrilling or electrifying, and if it were not for the magnificent scenery, the audience would not sit through it to the end. It will fill the theatre a few more times and then gather dust in the archives. Now, my dear Signor Verdi, you can imagine my regret at having spent 32 lire for these two performances. Add to this the aggravating circumstance that I am dependent on my family, and you will understand that his money preys on my mind like a terrible specter. Therefore I address myself frankly and openly to you so that you may send me this sum. Here is the account: Railroad, going: 2.60 Railroad, returning: 3.30 Theatre: 8.00 Disgustingly bad dinner: 2.00 Twice: 15.90 Total: 31.80 In the hope that you will extricate me from this dilemma, I am yours sincerely, Bertani My address: Bertani, Prospero; Via St. Domenico, No. 5.

Imagine, if to protect a child of a family from the horrible specters that disturb his peace, I should not be disposed to pay that little bill he has brought to my attention! Therefore by means of your representative or a bank, please reimburse 27.80 lire in my name to this Signor Prospero Bertani, 5 Via St. Domenico. This isn't the entire sum for which asks me, but... to pay for his dinner too! No. He could very well have eaten at home!!! Of course he will send you a receipt for that sum and a note, by which he promises never again to go to hear my new operas, to avoid for himself the danger of other specters and for me the farce of paying him for another trip [...]

Ricordi to Verdi:

Milan, 16 May 1872 Dear Giuseppe, As soon as I received you last letter I wrote to our correspondent in Reggio, who found the famous Signor Bertani, paid the money, and got the proper receipt! I amc opying the letter and receipt for the newspaper, and I shall return everything to you tomorrow. Oh, what fools there are in this world! But this is the best one yet! The correspondent in Reggio writes me: "I sent immediately for Bertani, who came to me right away. Advised of the reason for my invitation, he first showed surprise, but then said: 'If Maestro Verdi reimburses me, this means that he has found what I wrote fim to be correct. It's my duty to thank him, however, and I ask you to do it for me.'" This one is even better! Pleased to have discovered this rarity of the species, I send the most cordial greetings to you and Signora Peppina. Giulio

Prospero Bertani to Verdi:

15 May 1872 I, the undersigned, certify herewith that I have received the sum of 27.80 lire from Maestro Giuseppe Verdi, as reimbursement of my expenses for a trip to Parma to hear the opera Aida. The Maestro felt it was fair that this sum should be restored to me, since I did not find his opera to my taste. At the same time it is agreed that I shall undertake no trip to hear any of the Maestro's new operas in the future, unless he takes all the expenses upon himself, whatever my opinion of his work may be. In confirmation whereof I have affixed my signature. Bertani, Prospero

Back in 1950, Alfred Hitchcock hired Oscar-nominated screenwriter Raymond Chandler to pen the script for his next project, Strangers on a Train — a thriller based on Patricia Highsmith's novel of the same name. Almost immediately their ideas clashed and before long their working relationship deteriorated beyond repair, apparently culminating with Chandler remarking loudly one day, within earshot of the director, "Look at the fat bastard trying to get out of his car!" Soon Chandler was let go; his drafts largely discarded. He wrote the following angry letter to Hitchcock some time later, after reading the final script. Source: The Raymond Chandler Papers (2000); Image: A Certain Cinema.

December 6th, 1950 Dear Hitch, In spite of your wide and generous disregard of my communications on the subject of the script of Strangers on a Train and your failure to make any comment on it, and in spite of not having heard a word from you since I began the writing of the actual screenplay—for all of which I might say I bear no malice, since this sort of procedure seems to be part of the standard Hollywood depravity—in spite of this and in spite of this extremely cumbersome sentence, I feel that I should, just for the record, pass you a few comments on what is termed the final script. I could understand your finding fault with my script in this or that way, thinking that such and such a scene was too long or such and such a mechanism was too awkward. I could understand you changing you mind about the things you specifically wanted, because some of such changes might have been imposed on you from without. What I cannot understand is your permitting a script which after all had some life and vitality to be reduced to such a flabby mass of clichés, a group of faceless characters, and the kind of dialogue every screen writer is taught not to write—the kind that says everything twice and leaves nothing to be implied by the actor or the camera. Of course you must have had your reasons but, to use a phrase once coined by Max Beerbohm, it would take a "far less brilliant mind than mine" to guess what they were. Regardless of whether or not my name appears on the screen among the credits, I'm not afraid that anybody will think I wrote this stuff. They'll know damn well I didn't. I shouldn't have minded in the least if you had produced a better script—believe me. I shouldn't. But if you wanted something written in skim milk, why on earth did you bother to come to me in the first place? What a waste of money! What a waste of time! It's no answer to say that I was well paid. Nobody can be adequately paid for wasting his time. (Signed, 'Raymond Chandler')

It's David Bowie's 65th birthday today. One of the most popular letters on this site is Bowie's charming reply to his "very first American fan letter" back in 1967, written excitedly when he was just 20 years old and yet to make his mark on the world, even typed on a sheet of his manager's stationery for lack of his own. Fast forward 7 years — to April of 1974, post-Ziggy — and it was a different story, as illustrated by the following letter of Bowie's, again in response to fan mail. He now had his own (brilliant) letterhead, and he was busy; so busy that he sent many similar form letters to other adoring followers. A month after sending this particular missive, Bowie moved from London to New York. Transcript follows. Image very kindly supplied by the lady to whom the letter was sent, Susie Maguire. Many thanks! Transcript

Dear Suzy, Thank you for your letter. Please forgive the amount of time that has elapsed since I received it but as you know I am either on the road performing or in the studio recording singles and albums until I sit down with a stack of fan mail every two or three weeks, I don't realise how much has accumulated. At the moment I am finishing me new album and I hope you are enjoying "Rebel Rebel", which will be included in the album. I am mad on it. Hope you are. I want you to all know and tell your mates that the mail I've been receiving about performing live again is starting to get to me. I can't promise but I think you lot will lure me back! You know it is your letters and cards and applause after each show which makes me able to carry on and devise new ideas and schemes to entertain you and make me happy. DON'T EVER STOP. Love on ya! (Signed, 'Bowie')

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In March of 1973, E. B. White — the author responsible for such books as Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web — received a letter from a Mr. Nadeau, who sought his opinion on what he saw as a bleak future for the human race. White responded with the following, beautifully written letter.

North Brooklin, Maine 30 March 1973 Dear Mr. Nadeau: As long as there is one upright man, as long as there is one compassionate woman, the contagion may spread and the scene is not desolate. Hope is the thing that is left to us, in a bad time. I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness. Sailors have an expression about the weather: they say, the weather is a great bluffer. I guess the same is true of our human society—things can look dark, then a break shows in the clouds, and all is changed, sometimes rather suddenly. It is quite obvious that the human race has made a queer mess of life on this planet. But as a people we probably harbor seeds of goodness that have lain for a long time waiting to sprout when the conditions are right. Man's curiosity, his relentlessness, his inventiveness, his ingenuity have led him into deep trouble. We can only hope that these same traits will enable him to claw his way out. Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day. Sincerely, (Signed, 'E. B. White')