Art by Chalon Alfred.
Love letter :Jack London to Anna Strunsky
Did I say that the humans might be filed in categories?
Well, and if I did, let me qualify -- not all humans.
You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you.
I may boast that of nine out of ten, under given
circumstances, I can forecast their action; that of nine
out of ten, by their word or action, I may feel the pulse
of their hearts.
But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth.
Were ever two souls, with dumb lips, more incongruously matched!
We may feel in common -- surely, we oftimes do -- and when we do
not feel in common, yet do we understand; and yet we have no
Spoken words do not come to us. We are unintelligible.
God must laugh at the mummery.
The one gleam of sanity through it all is that we are both large
temperamentally, large enough to often understand.
True, we often understand but in vague glimmering ways,
by dim perceptions, like ghosts, which, while we doubt, haunt us
with their truth.
And still, I, for one, dare not believe; for you are that tenth
which I may not forecast.
Am I unintelligible now? I do not know. I imagine so. I cannot
find the common tongue.
Large temperamentally -- that is it. It is the one thing that
brings us at all in touch. We have, flashed through us, you and I,
each a bit of universal, and so we draw together. And yet we are
I smile at you when you grow enthusiastic? It is a forgivable
smile -- nay, almost an envious smile. I have lived twenty-five
years of repression. I learned not to be enthusiastic.
It is a hard lesson to forget.
I begin to forget, but it is so little. At the best, before I die,
I cannot hope to forget all or most. I can exult, now that I am
learning,in little things, in other things; but of my things,
and secret things doubly mine, I cannot, I cannot.
Do I make myself intelligible?
Do you hear my voice?
I fear not.
There are poseurs. I am the most successful of them all.