The summer sun beat down on the mountains of the Rhône-Alpes region. Fortunately it was much cooler indoors. I was in our town’s local bookstore searching for a Colette novel when I came across a massive book co-authored by Albert Camus. Although not a huge fan of existentialism, I’d read L’Étranger for school and had a yet unread copy of La Peste on the bookshelf back home. The aforementioned books are relatively short. This one in the shop was the size of a bible. My curiosity was piqued; upon further inspection I discovered that it wasn’t a novel. Even better: it was a collection of hundreds of letters, hence the apt title of Correspondance. The tome documented fifteen years of written correspondence between Camus and his lover Maria Casarès. Flicking through the pages felt a bit intrusive, but I couldn’t help my intrigue - the intimacy and emotive detail of their letters drew me in. Although heavily tempted, I didn’t buy the book; I reasoned that I had some Colette to crack into. Also, after a notably loveless period of my life, I was keen to avoid any activities that might cause me to implode with longing or angst.
The closest thing to a love letter I’d received the year prior was this text:
It was written by a Gorgeous Asshole with a strong jawline. This was the perfunctory follow up text after our first date, the most disastrous one I’d been on in my life. His two hour monologue had included stories of his crazy ex, her breast implants, and his parents' approval of her because she was pretty. It didn’t matter that she was dumb! His words, not mine. The true highlight was his anecdote about the time he had threatened to murder a group of construction workers. “Listen, if this remodel isn’t done by Diwali, I’m gonna have to bury you guys in the driveway.” Needless to say, he was a charmer. Upon receipt of the text I let out a hollow laugh. Ultimately, I was grateful for my time with him too! This new low gave me confidence that I’d never be so horrified by a first date again. I politely thanked him for dinner and “forgot” to reply to the next text.
The last actual love letter I received was fifteen years ago on Valentine’s Day. My first boyfriend gave me a beautiful homemade card on which he’d drawn a heart. I find this letter every few years whenever I’m moving or re-organizing; every time I wonder whether it’s weird that I’ve kept it for so long. Then I remember I’m a sentimental fool, and once again tuck it back into the notebook where it lives. The letter never fails to make my heart melt. “I hate coming to school but it doesn’t suck as much now. I’m happier because I know I get to see you there.” The sweet simplicity and innocence provide a soothing tonic for my soul. It softens the emotional calluses I’ve developed throughout the years, jumping between blind dates, dating apps, and undefinable situationships.
Unsurprisingly, one is unlikely to receive love letters if one is not in love. My personal experience is marked by a lack of profundity in monogamy, aka, the elusive ~serious relationship~. But even my friends who are deeply in love, and possess the attractive booster packs (consisting of puppies, a ring, a baby or two), are unaccustomed to receiving words of love in letter form. It’s a shame, really.
I thought about why we don't write or receive love letters anymore. It’s mostly because:
We have texting.
Normal letters and mail are nearly obsolete.
Written words are mostly saved for special occasions: birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, etc
Social media has led to public proclamations being favored over letters. Love, like the rest of our lives, can now be performative. A private, sweet note is no longer enough to quench a partner’s thirst. An insta caption (“I wake up everyday feeling so lucky to call you mine!”) has become the preferred form of expression.
In short - we’re all lazy blobs.
(Some blobs need more external validation than others.)
On the salt scale ranging from “Get off my lawn!!!” to “She woke up today and chose violence”, I think I currently land somewhere in between - perhaps on the “Nostalgia-fueled-by-too-much-wine” marker.
In my defense, I simply love love! And as corny as it is to admit, I’m smitten by the written word. Camus and Casarès make me wish people would combine these two glorious elements more often. Who knows though? Maybe there are hundreds (or thousands?!) of people out there writing beautiful love letters to one another in secret. Thirty years from now, maybe I’ll come across a published collection of sweet letters / cards / emails / texts. In my mind’s eye, it ideally starts with a chapter titled “Hey ;)” and ends with an epic sonnet.
Despite my own shortcomings in the realm of romance, I’ve found myself moved enough to write two love letters in my twenties. Both fell flat; I received no written responses, only verbal acknowledgement. Fortunately, I’m completely undeterred by these flops (both the letters, and the men).
A wise philosopher once said “Don’t let the haters stop you from doing your thang.” I’m certain the future will provide me with more swoonworthy, stupid, serotonin-fueled opportunities to write love letters. I patiently await the next prince or princess charming who will inspire me. I just hope that they have the aptitude to type out “A” “N” “D” instead of opting for an ampersand when they inevitably compose their beautiful response.
Well spoken philosopher Kevin G.