They are indescribably lovely and absolutely perfect and — well, pure in the best sense. Thanks, Molly. As a compulsive dasher myself — sometimes to a painful degree — I found their excessive use of dashes both comforting and charming. How much we have in common. Originally featured last October. Trogdon to curate this first in what will be a series of at least 16 volumes. He had the misfortune to have mental troubles in old age. Up until that, he was a rather lighthearted and humorous person.
From lovers to rivals to his mother, the recipients of the letters each seem to get a different piece of Hemingway, custom-tailored for them not in the hypocritical way of an inauthentic social chameleon but in the way great writers know the heart, mind, and language of their reader. The letters thus become not only a tender homage to this unknown Hemingway, revealing new insights into his creative process along the way, but also a bow before the lost art of letter-writing itself. Steinbeck: A Life in Letters constructs an alternative biography of the iconic author through some of his most thoughtful, witty, honest, opinionated, vulnerable, and revealing letters to family, friends, his editor, and a circle of equally well-known and influential public figures.
We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers. 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.
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. 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. With trepidation I turned to July of that year and found the entry for the 19th, the day Ingrid died.
He went momentarily blind upon hearing the news. He did not attend her official funeral, nor the gathering later organised by their friends. For the next 40 years he refused to break the silence shrouding the relationship. It was the first time he saw her since she was a child and the first time I met her.
We had tea. It shines through and can still warm hearts. Simone and I met again recently. Her impressions of the letters made me grasp that no matter what else, the correspondence has already fulfilled one immeasurable purpose.
Letters of Note
The letters were of comfort to her, Simone said. After her visit, I sat a long time in the sun on the stoep, reeling from the encounter. It is a story waiting to be told. I have spoken to Estelle, written to Anton. We would visit when we were in Grahamstown, speak often on the phone, even exchange the odd postcard. The first and last Mrs Brink became friends. She came to Cape Town in February to comfort me. There is a certain kind of love that can never be extinguished.
When we talked about the letters, her first concern was for me. Her graciousness says everything about her. Not knowing what this book means to me, some friends, and even strangers, worry about me in connection with the publication. But there is no need.
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I do not feel brave. I am fragile; still, only. Its embers will keep me warm for the rest of my life. The wife in me appreciates the gift of the words which remain. The literary scholar and the writer in me are cheering from the sidelines. There is the detachment of time; all of this happened years before I had even been born.
It is wrapped in the overwhelming goodwill of many people who have lent their hearts and souls to it. I recently listened to two wise women tell the story of a tragic love triangle.
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It was a cold evening in September. The sea was roaring outside the cottage. The wine tasted of regret. I remember a lot from that night, but nothing has moved me as much as that comment. Karin Schimke, journalist and poet, talks to Naomi Meyer about her translation of these remarkable love letters. It is a privilege to get an insight into the hearts of these exceptional people and their relationships. As a man may I say that Andre was lucky to have had these extraordinary women in his life and I have special respect for his last wife Karin.
This is what makes life worthwhile when in these relationships the human soul and body can soar or burn - testing the outermost boundaries of human experience and emotions. En nuwe begrip vir "the heart has spaces". Dank aan Karina wat die groter prentjie beskikbaar gestel het.
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Ek het nou met die lees van "Vlam in die Sneeu", wat 'n versameling is van al die briewe en korrespondensie tussen die Ingrid Jonker en Andre P. Brink, deur fases gegaan. Eers van voyeurisme, gevoel of ek op mense se mees intieme oomblikke spioeneer. Daarna volkome teleurstelling omdat die feite soos dit nog altyd in die beperkte annale opgeteken nie ooreenstem met dit wat ek eindelik hier in die korrespondensie beleef nie. En dan, soos ek maar meestal met 'n goeie stuk skryfwerk, boek, rolprent of kunswerk doen, die gevoel dat ek vir 'n lang lang tyd daarna myself nie kan losmaak daarvan en gewoon met my burgerlike bestaan en sleurwerk kan voortgaan nie.
Ek is die mens wat graag wanneer ek fliek, die laaste uit die teater loop. Ek sit deur al die erkennings, lyste en lyste name, totdat die skerm doodgaan. Omdat ek nog 'n rukkie van die atmosfeer wil indrink, nog nie die magiese oomblik wil of kan verbreek nie. Ek 'gesels' vir dae nadat ek 'n boek neergesit het, steeds met die karakters. Loop steeds op-die-tone en sag versigtig rondom hul hartsere en gelukke. Dit is veral so, na die lees van hierdie intieme en teer en soms ontstellende geskrifte.
Dankie vir die deel van julle reis deur middel van julle liefdesbriewe. Dit beantwoord baie vrae waarmee ons almal ook maar mee in ons binneste rondloop Nuwe moontlike temas vir 'n doktorale proefskrif het ook nou vir baie studente oopgeval! Susanna Elizabeth Grobler. If she still loved him at the time of his affair, the betrayal, for all the world to read, must be hurtful, to put it mildly. Whether an affair is perpetrated by 'great' writers or 'ordinary' people, the hurt it inflicts, on children or spouses, only adds to its sordidness.
Dear Christine, All of us did.
All people connected to this book thought about Estelle and all others who are mentioned in the correspondence. An affair, no matter who is involved, no matter what the reasons, is a tangle of intense, complex emotions. I am sorry if the book offended you.
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Heavens Karina, I am not offended - so no need to say sorry - why would I be? I just wanted to add my bit of a dampener to the comments from misty-eyed maidens who think its all about love Vir jare wonder ek: Wat het van Salomi Louw geword? My laaste herhinnering van haar was in 'n woonstelletjie in Pretoria met 'n klein seuntjie, "wat net soos sy pa gelyk het". Het sopas "imaginings of Sand" begin lees en dink aan my vriendin, Salomi - ons was in dieselfde Teaterkursus. I found this info about A Flame in the Snow very moving - never knew about their liaison.
Still have Rook en Oker on my bookshelf. Can someone please tell me what happened to Salomi? Salomi Louw het akademikus geword; haar doktorsgraad in Drama filmkunde verwerf aan die Universiteit van Pretoria; en was met haar uittrede Direkteur van die Skool vir Tale en Kommunikasie aan die Universiteit van Limpopo.
Sy woon in Pretoria.
Love Letters Volume 4: Travel to Temptation
Baie word gese omtrent die liefdesverhouding en -briewe. Bestaan daar enige materiaal na Andre Brink se brief aan Ingrid gedateer 27 April ? Dit blyk dat Brink se nuwe verhouding met Salomi Louw die direkte oorsaak was van Ingrid se selfdood. Jou e-posadres sal nie gepubliseer word nie. Kommentaar is onderhewig aan moderering. Stel my in kennis indien nuwe kommentaar bygevoeg word. One of Ingrid's telegraphs. Ingrid's lock of hair found in August Scanning of the letters, April The letters of Gustave Flaubert , the 19th-century French novelist, range in date from , when he was 7 or 8 years old, to a day or two before his death in They provide a valuable glimpse of his methods of work and his literary philosophy, as well as documenting his social life, political opinions, and increasing disgust with bourgeois society.
Flaubert's personality was rigorously excluded from his novels, but in the letters, written at night after the day's literary work was done, he expresses much more spontaneously his own personal views. They discuss the subject-matter and structural difficulties of his novels, and explore the problems Flaubert faced in their composition, giving the reader a unique glimpse of his art in the making.
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But his letters also demonstrate an enjoyment of the simple pleasures of Flaubert's youth. Friendship, love, conversation, a delight in foreign travel, the pleasures of the table and of the bed are all in evidence. For many years after the first publication of the letters critical opinion was divided. It was my reservoir of energy". Frank Harris said that in his letters "he lets himself go and unconsciously paints himself for us to the life; and this Gustave Flaubert is enormously more interesting than anything in Madame Bovary ".
This ambivalence is a thing of the past, and there is now widespread agreement that the Flaubert correspondence is one of the finest in French literature. The Correspondance There have also been many single-correspondent editions of Flaubert's letters to one or another of his friends and associates, and selections from the collected letters. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Retrieved 2 August Westport, Conn. The Guardian.