My dear
Cousin,
………………………………………
… all this
may seem rather strange to you. Perhaps you are thinking as follows: “The time
he uses to write a letter could just as well be used to pay a visit – and used
far better.” I concede it, I concede everything, I make every concession – in
order to do something, at least, and I prefer to do it in writing, for to do it
in conversation would really mean defeat. The fact is that I am actually in
love with the company of my pen. It might be said that this is a poor object on
which to cast one’s affection. Perhaps! But is it not as though I were always
content with it. Occasionally I hurl it away in anger. Alas, this very anger
shows me once more that I am indeed in love with it, for the quarrel ends as
lovers’ quarrels do. I confide completely in my pen, whether I become angry
when it sometimes seems to me that it cannot do what I can do, cannot follow
the thought that I am thinking – or whether I am surprised when it seems as if
it can do what I cannot. I cannot tear myself away from the company of my pen;
indeed, it prevents me from seeking the company of anybody else.
So as I sit
here at home and happen to think about somebody or other who is dear to me, I
think, “Now you ought to go and visit him.” But what happens? I think about it
for such a long time that finally the pen (yes, for it must be the pen!) tricks
its way into my hand. Instead of pay a visit in town, one more letter takes shape
at home. Assisted by the pen I now converse with this person, and when I have
finished, the pen actually laughs at me, for it has tricked me. By then the
letter is finished, and I think to myself, “Now you must be sure to seal and
send it”. What happens? Well it must be the pen that makes me believe that it
can inform me perfectly well as to what impression the receipt of my letter
will make on the recipient: what he will say and what I will say in my turn –
what he will then say, etc. In brief, instead of sending the letter, which is
burned, that letter occasions a small sketch from nature. Of course that sketch
cannot be sent and accordingly it must also be burned. Once again the pen has
tricked me. It tricks me out of many of the pleasures of life, and the sole
comfort left is that, assisted by the pen, I am able more or less to describe
how easily it has tricked me – provided that this does not have to be done on
one of those days when I am quarreling with it.
............................................................
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