Letters of Note

Grow up as good revolutionaries

2013-06-14T12:58:00.001+01:00

In 1955, Argentinean-born Che Guevara met Fidel Castro and quickly joined his efforts to oust Fulgencio Batista as leader of Cuba — a revolution in which he would go on to play a major role and which would lead to Guevara becoming Finance Minister under Castro’s rule. By 1965, Guevara was keen to spread his revolutionary ideas: he began by travelling to the Congo where he unsuccessfully attempted to train rebel forces in the area; he then moved on to Bolivia, where he was ultimately captured by the Bolivian army and later, in 1967, executed on the orders of President René Barrientos.

Before he left for Bolivia, Guevara secretly visited his wife back in Cuba and gave her a letter, to be read by his five children in the event of his death; the next year, he wrote a similar letter just for his eldest daughter, Hilda. Both are below.

(Source: Narod.ru; Image: Che and some of the family, via.)

[1965]

To my children

Dear Hildita, Aleidita, Camilo, Celia, And Ernesto,

If you ever have to read this letter, it will be because I am no longer with you. You practically will not remember me, and the smaller ones will not remember me at all.

Your father has been a man who acted on his beliefs and has certainly been loyal to his convictions.

Grow up as good revolutionaries. Study hard so that you can master technology, which allows us to master nature. Remember that the revolution is what is important, and each one of us, alone is worth nothing.

Above all, always be capable of feeling deeply any injustice committed against anyone, anywhere in the world. This is the most beautiful quality in a revolutionary.

Until forever, my children. I still hope to see you.

A great big kiss and a big hug from,

Papa

--------------------

February 15. 1966

Dearest Hildita,

I am writing you now, although you’ll receive this letter much later. But I want you to know that I am thinking about you and I hope you’re having a very happy birthday. You are almost a woman now, and I cannot write to you the way I write to the little ones, telling them silly things or little fibs.

You must know that I am still far away and will be gone for quite some time, doing what I can to fight against our enemies. Not that it is a great thing, but I am doing something, and I think you will always be proud of your father, as I am of you.

Remember, there are many years of struggle ahead, and even when you are a woman, you will have to do your part in the struggle. Meanwhile, you have to prepare yourself, be very revolutionary-which at your age means to learn a lot, as much as possible, and always be ready to support just causes. Also, obey your mother and don’t think that you know it all too soon. That will come in time.

You should fight to be among the best in school. The best in every sense, and you already know what that means; study and revolutionary attitude. In other words: good conduct, seriousness, love for the revolution, comradeship, etc.

I was not that way at your age, but I lived in a different society, where man was an enemy of man. Now you have the privilege of living in another era and you must be worthy of it.

Don’t forget to go by the house to keep an eye on the other kids and advise them to study and behave themselves. Especially Aleldita, who pays a lot of attention to you as her older sister.

All right, old lady. Again I hope you are very happy on your birthday. Give a hug to your mother and to Gina. I give you a great big strong one to last as long as we don’t see each other.

Your Papa

I am Danny DeVito's mother

2013-06-13T11:47:00.003+01:00

In 1973, at the very beginning of Danny DeVito's Hollywood career, he was cast in Scalawag—a largely forgotten movie directed by, and starring, Kirk Douglas which received, at best, lukewarm reviews upon release. No-one was prouder of the film, however, than DeVito's mother, Julia, and soon after watching it she sent an endearing letter to Douglas to thank him for casting her son. Julia passed away in 1987; the next year, Kirk Douglas reprinted her charming letter in his autobiography. In 1991, Danny DeVito read it aloud to an audience of hundreds as the AFI Life Achievement Award was awarded to Douglas. Footage can be found below, immediately after a transcript of the original letter as printed in Douglas' book.

Trivia: Eight years after Scalawag hit the screens, Julia DeVito starred opposite her now-famous son in two episodes of Taxi. She played, quite fittingly, his character's mother.

(Source: The Ragman's Son; Image above: Danny DeVito & his mother in Taxi, Season 4 Episode 7.)

Transcript

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Douglas:

I am Danny DeVito's mother, writing to thank you both for giving my son a part in your movie, "Scallywag." My family all went to see it at the Paramount in N.Y.C. it was a great movie. Some of my friends & relatives saw it in Florida, they called me up to-day, to tell me that Danny was great they liked his acting, so that made me feel so proud. Half of Asbury Park N.J. are waiting for it to come here. My daughter owns a Beauty Salon in Neptune N.J. & has a sign in it: "Scallywag Coming Soon." You see there is plenty of publicity out here.

Love to your son Michael, he spent a weekend at our house & we all love him & we also watch the Streets of San Francisco on Thursday nights.

Again, I want to thank you both for giving my son a part in your movie. It's great to have a part with a big star like you.

Sincerely Yours,
Mrs. Dan DeVito

Just like that

2013-03-25T13:01:00.001Z

The late, great Tommy Cooper was one of the most recognisable comedians in the world, his frantic act a perfectly delivered mixture of jokes and calamitous magic tricks that rarely failed to raise a laugh. I remember watching him as a kid, mesmerised, fully convinced that he was never out of character, that actually there was no character — in my mind, Tommy Cooper always wore a fez, even at home; the grin, the props, the one-liners a constant. Which is why this joke-filled letter, written by Tommy to his mum at some point in the 1970s, on fez stationery, fills me with joy.

Transcript follows (with mistakes, as the second line of Tommy's letter seems a little mangled. Not important, though). From the wonderful book, Tommy Cooper 'Jus' Like That!': A Life in Jokes and Pictures.

(Source: Tommy Cooper 'Jus' Like That!': A Life in Jokes and Pictures by John Fisher; Image of Tommy Cooper via.)

Transcript

Dear Mum,

How nice to hear you are getting on so well! Looking forward very much to seeing you and have a nice long rest with us Jan. All day yesterday, I heard a ringing in my ears — Then I picked up the phone and it stopped. I was going to see my doctor, but he isn't a very good doctor. All his patients are sick. Dove & myself are on a new diet. We eat our breakfast in the raw. Then we eat our lunch raw. For dinner we put on clothes.

See you soon

All my love

Tommy xxxx

Hello

2013-03-19T16:07:00.002Z

Dear All,

Huge apologies for the lack of updates to Letters of Note recently. Unfortunately the silence and tumbleweeds will continue for the next week or two while I put the finishing touches to something I've been working on for the past couple of years and which is currently taking up all of my time — the Letters of Note book. This magnificent object will hopefully be in the hands of those who supported and funded it by the end of May, and you can still pre-order a copy of that first edition here. You really should.

A trade edition will follow in October, at which point the book will be available in all good and sensible bookshops.

So, that's it. The website hasn't died, and a book is on its way.

I'll be back soon.

Thanks!

Shaun

The loss of you lingers

2013-03-08T15:40:00.000Z

In 1989, 52-year-old Long Island resident Joan Cook Carpenter passed away after succumbing to breast cancer — a battle which she had chosen to keep from her loved ones until her final days. In 1999, a decade after Joan's death, her 29-year-old daughter, Karin, wrote her the following letter.

Karin wrote an award-winning novel partly inspired by the experience, titled What Girls Learn, in 1998.

(Source: Women's Letters; Image via.)

Dear Mom,

What time was I born?
When did I walk?
What was my first word?

My body has begun to look like yours. Suddenly I can see you in me. I have so many questions. I look for answers in the air. Listen for your voice. Anticipate. Find meaning in the example of your life. I imagine what you might have said or done. Sometimes I hear answers in the echo of your absence. The notion of mentor is always a little empty for me. Holding out for the hope of you. My identity has taken shape in spite of that absence. There are women I go to for advice. But advice comes from the outside. Knowing, from within. There is so much I don't know.

What were your secrets?
What was your greatest source of strength?
When did you know you were dying?

I wish I had paid closer attention. The things that really matter you gave me early on—a way of being and loving and imagining. It's the stuff of daily life that is often more challenging. I step unsure into a world of rules and etiquette, not knowing what is expected in many situations. I am lacking a certain kind of confidence. Decisions and departures are difficult. As are dinner parties. Celebrations and ceremony. Any kind of change. Small things become symbolic. Every object matters—that moth-eaten sweater, those photos. Suddenly I care about your silverware. My memory is an album of missed opportunities. The loss of you lingers.

Did you like yourself?
Who was your greatest love?
What did you fear most?

In the weeks before your death, I knew to ask questions. At nineteen, I needed to hear your hopes for me. On your deathbed, you said that you understood my love for women, just as you suggested you would have fought against it. In your absence, I have had to imagine your acceptance.

There are choices I have made that would not have been yours. Somehow that knowledge is harder for me than if I had you to fight with. My motions lack forcefulness. I back into decisions rather than forge ahead. This hesitancy leaves me wondering:

Did you ever doubt me?
Would you have accepted me?
What did you wish for me?

I know that my political choices threatened you. Your way was to keep things looking good on the outside, deny certain feelings, erase unpleasant actions. Since your death, I have exposed many of the things that you would have liked to keep hidden. I can no longer hold the family secrets for you.

I search for information about your life. Each scrapbook, letter, anecdote I come across is crucial to my desire to understand you and the choices you made. I have learned about affairs, abuse, all things you would not have wanted me to know. Yet they explain the missing blanks in my memory bank and round out your humanity.

Who did you dream you would be?
Did you ever live alone?
Why did you divorce?
Did you believe in God?

One thing you said haunts me still. When I asked about motherhood, you said that children don't need as much as you gave. "Eighty percent is probably plenty." I was shocked by your words. Did you regret having given so much of yourself? Now, those words seem like a gift. A way of offering me a model of motherhood, beyond even your own example.

Becoming a mother is something I think about a great deal, almost to the point of preoccupation. I have heard it said that constant dreaming about birth often signals a desire to birth one's self, to come into one's own. My process of grieving the loss of you has been as much about birthing myself as letting you go.

What were your last thoughts?
Were you proud?
Were you at peace?
What is it like to die?

How frightened you must have been shouldering so much of your illness alone. The level of your own isolation is a mystery to me. In my life, I try hard to reach out, to let others in. I fear loss more than anything. I turn on my computer. Make things up. I tell the truth. My daily work is toward connection. All these questions move me to search, less and less for your answers and increasingly for my own.

Love,

Karin