Love Letters

A week or so ago I posted about seeing Hichcock's Rebecca.  I wrote how much I lusted after Rebecca's sophisticated and elegant bedroom. 

There is also a scene early in the film that is set in a morning room, a sunlit room where Rebecca would write her letters. This room is another sensual delight. There is a carved desk adorned with piles of creamy, smooth monogrammed paper and envelopes.  Silken address books and pots of ebony fountain pens and rapier-sharp pencils are neatly arranged.  A crystal bowl with cottage-garden flowers scents the room.  How I covert that room too!

I have a small 'morning room' myself, with an antique, leather-topped desk.  Mine is scattered with gas bills, gravy bone dog biscuits and Year 3 homework sheets.  I have no stationary. These days I just seem to email (or blog).  I mourn the passing of real love letters.  What a pleasure a crisp, smooth white envelope on a sunny doormat must be.

Nick Cave wrote a song about winning a lost-love back with a love-letter.

I kiss the cold, white envelope
I press my lips against her name
Two hundred words. We live in hope
The sky hangs heavy with rain

It is a beautiful song.  I cherish the notion that the written word has the mystical power to transform and enchant,  that there is an alchemy in words.  If you can find the right combination, the right balance then anything is possible.  That is my archaic superstition.  Some people believe in potions, runes, the position of the moon.  I believe in the magic of poetry and words.