To My Kind Editor (WSW)
May 28, 2021 11:43:45 GMT -5
Jacques Snicket and Poe's Coats Host Toast like this
Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 28, 2021 11:43:45 GMT -5
To my kind editor
Love is a curious thing. It surrounds all of us, though we each have a different relationship with it. Some can spend their whole lives seeking it, while to others it may unexpectedly leap upon them, leaving them excited and confused.
Lately I have been feeling especially lonely, a phrase which here means 'spending ones time in isolation, the only company being my feelings of misery and despair'. It is something that I am sure many people can relate to, especially as the world has recently become so rife with woe and misfortune. However, I was able to prepare myself for just such a situation, and so have spent the last year or more locked in a hidden library known only to members of my organisation, with only a clown costume, a fountain pen, and books for my company.
At first I was happy, and thought that perhaps escaping the world was the best way to escape myself, but that is not so. Like a virus, it catches up with you. With each book that I read, each story that I devour, I find myself entering a new cycle of despair. Everything reminds me of what I am missing, of the world that is passing me by, the lives that I could have led. Our lives are like books, each day a chapter. Only there is no contents page, no index, no editors. We cannot know what is to come, and we do not know how many pages are left before the ink runs out.
I found my own books there, all thirteen of them, and it made me feel curiously disturbed. The first thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous disguise?'. The second thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, why have you hidden the menu to a Chinese restaurant inside this fountain pen?'. The third thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, if you wanted the tale of the Baudelaire Orphans to be told to the general public, why did you attempt to dissuade people from reading those books?'.
The tale of the Baudelaire orphans had to be told, but at the same time I could not help but feel responsible for unleashing such misery on the world. One can only imagine how it would feel to spend day after dreadful day reading stories full of untold misery and strife, but sadly that has been my existence for much of the last few months. I dread to think how many people have endured the same as I, but I had to. Because of you, my kind editor.
You needed to know the truth just as much I needed to keep it hidden. The truth is like a tin of Surströmming. Once opened, it is difficult to ignore. I do not know if you have ever read my works, and if not then my mission was in vain. I mentioned you in each one, from The Bad Beginning through to The End. I think that anyone who was unfortunate enough to read those solemn tranches would not have understood the truth, but it was all for you.
I do not know where you are, but wherever that is I pray you are not alone. I do not know if you will ever read this letter, especially as I will have no way of sending it to you. Perhaps I shall place it inside a copy of one of my books, in the hope that if you should deign to read it you will finally learn the whole truth. Then you will know that I love you with all of my heart, and I hope that you will be able to forgive me. If you do not read this letter then things will stay as they have been all these years, and this letter will sit on a lonely shelf gathering dust, like so many other forgotten volumes.
I do not know what will come next for me. I hope that I will not be lonely forever. Or perhaps one day I can be lonely with you.
With all due respect
Love is a curious thing. It surrounds all of us, though we each have a different relationship with it. Some can spend their whole lives seeking it, while to others it may unexpectedly leap upon them, leaving them excited and confused.
Lately I have been feeling especially lonely, a phrase which here means 'spending ones time in isolation, the only company being my feelings of misery and despair'. It is something that I am sure many people can relate to, especially as the world has recently become so rife with woe and misfortune. However, I was able to prepare myself for just such a situation, and so have spent the last year or more locked in a hidden library known only to members of my organisation, with only a clown costume, a fountain pen, and books for my company.
At first I was happy, and thought that perhaps escaping the world was the best way to escape myself, but that is not so. Like a virus, it catches up with you. With each book that I read, each story that I devour, I find myself entering a new cycle of despair. Everything reminds me of what I am missing, of the world that is passing me by, the lives that I could have led. Our lives are like books, each day a chapter. Only there is no contents page, no index, no editors. We cannot know what is to come, and we do not know how many pages are left before the ink runs out.
I found my own books there, all thirteen of them, and it made me feel curiously disturbed. The first thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, why on earth are you wearing that ridiculous disguise?'. The second thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, why have you hidden the menu to a Chinese restaurant inside this fountain pen?'. The third thing that people often ask when they meet me is 'Mr. Snicket, if you wanted the tale of the Baudelaire Orphans to be told to the general public, why did you attempt to dissuade people from reading those books?'.
The tale of the Baudelaire orphans had to be told, but at the same time I could not help but feel responsible for unleashing such misery on the world. One can only imagine how it would feel to spend day after dreadful day reading stories full of untold misery and strife, but sadly that has been my existence for much of the last few months. I dread to think how many people have endured the same as I, but I had to. Because of you, my kind editor.
You needed to know the truth just as much I needed to keep it hidden. The truth is like a tin of Surströmming. Once opened, it is difficult to ignore. I do not know if you have ever read my works, and if not then my mission was in vain. I mentioned you in each one, from The Bad Beginning through to The End. I think that anyone who was unfortunate enough to read those solemn tranches would not have understood the truth, but it was all for you.
I do not know where you are, but wherever that is I pray you are not alone. I do not know if you will ever read this letter, especially as I will have no way of sending it to you. Perhaps I shall place it inside a copy of one of my books, in the hope that if you should deign to read it you will finally learn the whole truth. Then you will know that I love you with all of my heart, and I hope that you will be able to forgive me. If you do not read this letter then things will stay as they have been all these years, and this letter will sit on a lonely shelf gathering dust, like so many other forgotten volumes.
I do not know what will come next for me. I hope that I will not be lonely forever. Or perhaps one day I can be lonely with you.
With all due respect