Possibly the best love letters of all time

My dear Miss, I now take up my pen to write to you, hoping these few lines will find you well. as it leaves me at present. Thank God for it. You will perhaps be surprised that I should make so Bold as it may seem to write to you, a lady of such distinction, and I hope you will not be vexed with me for it. I hardly dare say what I want. I am so timid around ladies, and my heart trembles like a leaf in the wind. But I once read in a book that a faint heart never won a fair lady, so here goes. I am a small-scale farmer, and I am somewhat over forty years old; my mother lives with me. and she's been taking care of my house, and she's been feeling quite unwell lately and can't move around much, and I think I should feel more at ease with a wife. I've had my eye on you for a long time, and I think You are a very kind young woman, and one who would bring me happiness if only you thought so. We keep a servant girl to milk three goats and do the work around the house, and she gets a little carried away. the summer to gather wickings and she snags a few turnips in the back end. I do a piece of work on I run the farm myself and attend Pateley Market, and I sometimes show a few sheep, and I feed them between. Three and four pigs again for Christmas, and the same is very useful in the house for making pies and cakes. and so on, and I sell the hams to help pay for the barley meal. I have about 73 pounds in Knaresborough Bank, and we have a nice little parlour downstairs with a blue carpet and a oven on the side of the fireplace and the old woman on the other side smoking. The golden rules Clawed up the walls along above the settle, and you could sit all day in the easy chair and knit. and mend my kettles and legumes, and you could make the tea ready again, I come in and you could Make butter for Pateley Market, and I would drive you to church every Sunday in the spring cart. And I would do everything in my power to make you happy. So I hope to hear from you. I am in desperate earnest and will marry you on May Day, or if my mother dies before I do, then immediately after. I shall want you always. If only you will accept me, my dear, we could be very happy together. I hope you will let me know your thoughts by return of post, and if you are favorable, I will come forward. To scratch. So no more for now from your will-wisher and true love, Simon Fallowfield. P.S. I hope you won't say anything about this. If you won't accept me, I have another. A very nice woman in my eyes, and I think I shall marry her if you do not accept me. But I thought you would suit my mother better; she can be quite crusty at times. January 21st, Milan. I have been reduced to a thing that longs for Virginia. I composed a beautiful A letter to you in the sleepless hours of the night, and it's all gone. I just miss you. in a very simple, desperate human way. You, with all your unfinished letters, would never write like this elementary as a phrase as that, perhaps you wouldn't even feel it, and yet I believe you'll be sensible with a small gap, but you would clothe it in such an exquisite phrase that it would lose a little its reality, whereas with me it is stark. I miss you more than I could have ever believed And I was prepared to miss you greatly. So this letter is just really a cry of pain. It's incredible how essential you've become to me. I suppose you're accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoiled creature. I won't make you love me any more by giving I can't pull away like this, but oh my dear, I can't be clever and distant with you. I love you too. Thanks so much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how distant I can be with people I don't love. I've turned it into a fine art, but you've shattered my defenses, and I don't truly resent it. However, I won't bore you with any more. We've restarted, and the train is shaky again. I shall have to write at the stations, which are fortunately numerous across the Lombard Plain. Venice. There were many stations, but I hadn't counted on the Orient Express not stopping at any of them. And here we are in Venice for only ten minutes. A wretched time to try and write. No time to buy an Italian stamp, even so this will have to go from Trieste. The waterfalls in Switzerland was frozen into solid, iridescent curtains of ice hanging over the rocks. So lovely. and Italy all blanketed in snow. We're going to start again. I shall have to wait until Trieste. Tomorrow morning. Please forgive me for writing such a miserable letter. V. Dear Jessica, you've You asked me to stop writing these letters. You told me that nothing will ever change between us, but I can't. Jessica, I just can't let you go. I mean, even Darth Vader, an evil Sith Lord, couldn't let his son go. die at the end of Return of the Jedi. You make me feel so safe, Jessica, so warm. I want to crawl up inside you like Luke Skywalker crawled inside his tauntaun to escape the freezing temperatures on Hoth, where the Rebel Alliance was hiding from the Galactic Empire. For you, Jessica I would dive into the Sarlacc pit of Tatooine and be slowly digested for a thousand years like the bounty hunter Boba Fett. Even though in the expanded universe of the Star Wars novel Fett eventually escapes, which creator George Lucas has accepted as official Star Wars canon, but my simile still stands. Please, please, Jessica, give you and me a try, or as a wise Jedi once said Try not. Do or do not, there is no try. Come on, Jessica, let's do it. Let's French. Then again, maybe you're right. Maybe we're from different galaxies, far, far away from one another. Maybe you're not the droid I'm looking for. Maybe I should give up and move on with my heart. May the force be with you, Patrick, third row history. Early 1796. So what is your strange Power incomparable, Josephine? One of your thoughts is poisoning my life, tearing my soul apart. I know full well that if we argue, I must deny my heart, my conscience. You have seduced them. They are always yours. I went to bed really angry, so you thought I didn't love you. Then whom? Madam, have you really thought about it? How could such a low feeling be conceived from a so pure? I am still astonished. Less so, however, than the feeling that has lingered since I woke up Has led me to your feet without bitterness and effortlessly. I give you three kisses. One on your heart. One on your mouth. And one on your eyes. Later that same year from Naples Three months after their marriage. My life is a perpetual nightmare. A foreboding of evil weighs heavily upon me. I can no longer see you. I have lost more than life, more than Happiness, more than my rest. I am almost without hope. I hasten to send a courier to you. It will remain in Paris for only four hours, and then bring me your reply. Write me ten pages. That alone can console me a little. You are ill. You love me. I have made you unhappy. You are in delicate health and I do not see you. That thought overwhelms me. I have done you so So much is wrong that I do not know how to atone for it. I accuse you of staying in Paris, and you were ill. There. Forgive me, my dear. The love you have inspired in me has robbed me of reason. I shall never find it again. It is an affliction for which there is no cure. My presentiments are so ominous that I would confine myself to merely seeing you, to pressing you for two hours upon me My heart, and then dying with you, Josephine. How can you remain so long without writing to me? Your last terse letter is dated May 22nd. Moreover, it is a distressing one for me. But I always keep it in my pocket. Your portrait and letters are perpetually before my eyes. One month later, from Mantua, which has just been overrun. I have been without letters from you for two days. That is at least the thirtieth time today that I have made this observation to myself. You are thinking this is particularly exhausting, yet you cannot doubt the tender and unique anxiety. with which you inspire me. We attacked Mantua yesterday. We heated it up from two batteries. With red-hot shells and from mortars. That wretched town has been on fire all night long. The sight was horrifying and majestic. We have secured several of the outworks. We opened the first parallel tonight. I have summoned the courier. He tells me that he crossed over to your house, and that you told him you had no commands. Fie, naughty, undutiful, cruel, tyrannous, jolly little monster. You laugh at my threats, at my infatuation. Ah, you well know that if I If I could lock you up in my breast, I would imprison you there. February 1797, Bologna. Peace with Rome has just been signed. Not a word from you. Napoleon complained. What on earth have I have come to think only of you, to love only Josephine, to live only for my wife, to find happiness only With my dear one? Does this deserve such harsh treatment from her? Write to me, think of me, and love me, yours ever for life. July 1809, Madrid. I begin at once to outmaneuver the English. who appear to have received reinforcements and wish to look formidable. The weather is fine, My health is perfect. I am sending a message to share the good news of the victory of Ensersdorf, which I won on the 5th, and that of Wagram, which I won on the 6th. The enemy's army flies in disorder and all goes according to my prayers. Bressières has been shot through the the fleshy part of his thigh. The wound is very slight. La Salle was killed. My losses are full heavy, but the victory is decisive and complete. We have captured more than 100 pieces of cannon, Twelve flags, many prisoners. I am sunburnt. The couple divorced shortly before his marriage. to Marie-Louise of Austria in 1810. The following year, he wrote to Josephine once more. I am writing to know how you are. I was annoyed with you regarding your debts. I do not wish for you to have any. On the contrary, I wish you to set aside a million every year to give to your grandchildren when they get married. Never doubt my love for you, and don't worry anymore about the present embarrassment. Farewell, dear. Send me word that you are well. They say that you are as fat as a good Normandy farmeress. December 1944. Dearest, so very worried about What is happening in Greece? Tonight's news mentioned it spreading, and it seems to be growing. a battle. My worst suspicions about why the British army went to Greece are confirmed. I don't know how this is affecting you and whether ordinary people are involved. Of course, You won't be able to tell me much. I can only hope for your safety. Darling, I have no complaints about your letters. I'm simply too happy that it's my body you desire. that occupies your thoughts. If you hadn't written and told me these things, I should suspect you in being interested in someone else's body. You keep focusing on mine. My breasts, my vital vibrant spot, my hands, and my desires. Well, I'm glad you have four blankets to keep You're warm. If I were there, you wouldn't want any. You'd be hot enough. Here I am, A blooming iceberg of a maiden, waiting to be roused into a fire. Not just melted, but turned into fire. And there you are, miles and miles away, needing an extra blanket. In the past month, I've hit rock bottom. I no longer need a nurse. Christopher. I need the whole vital man in you. Your strength, your energy. When, When will you make me a complete woman? That's what I'm suffering from—stunted growth. My body is stunted, my affections are stunted. Even my mind suffers from this incompleteness. I want to be, I want to be your mistress, to be used to the utmost. I want to fuss over you, take care of you. I want to be your companion in arms, away from depressions, fed upness, and waiting. I'm so sick of being a cold, aloof virgin. Crikey, talk about wasted potential. It's not easy to put these things into words, but you've managed it. You've moved me deeply. Down to the foundations. You have achieved what I never thought possible. You've opened a vision of a new world, a new experience for me. I cannot help but be so. Extremely, extremely grateful to you. With that in front of me, I can overcome my dark moods and rise up. Again and know that this life is worth living. Pancakes. Yes, we had your lemons with them. That's why I made them. I'd rather think your lemons helped me get rid of my cold. Maybe your letters too. All those things help, you know, the lemons on the practical side. and the letters on the mental side. I had to giggle at my own bravery in bombed London. I live here, work here, and there's nothing else to do but live here and work here, and like Most things, up to a point, you get used to. It's one's limited resources that one has to be brave about. All the usual aches and pains weigh you down easily. Extra effort tires you out. But we're all in the same boat, so it's not as bad as it sounds. Besides, the battlefronts sound so much worse. I focus on that whenever I feel pathetic. I'm just listening to the nine o'clock news and it's most disheartening. It says it's spreading. Not letting up. Oh dear, Christopher, I truly can't think of anything else. I really want to be cheerful, but it's so difficult. Christmas and you out there. I love you, and my heart aches. It's so lonely and desolate without you. My mind keeps wandering into such flights of fancy about how to reach you, from stowing away on a ship to applying to the War Office. It's silly, but it does get that bad sometimes. I went to see The Circle, John Gielgud's production, by Somerset Maugham. I didn't Think much of it. To me, Gielgud seemed such a milquetoast specimen. No fire, just a beautiful voice. I think I've become a bit picky about the theatre. I've seen some really Fine plays during the war, and my standards got a bit high. I've been horribly chatty in this letter. That's the result of worrying. I've been thinking about you in a different way. The situation Greece is getting under my skin, despite all my efforts to stay calm. Staying calm is my motto, but I do wish I knew how things were with you. I love you, Bessie. January 31, 1945. My dearest one, I have just heard the news that all the army men taken prisoners of war are to return to their homes. Due to the shipping situation, we may not commence to go before the end of February, but can probably count on being in England sometime in March. Maybe sooner. It has made me feel very warm inside. It's terrific. It's wonderful. It's shattering. I don't know what to say, and I can't think. The delay means nothing. The decision is everything. Now I am mentally confirming the small decisions I have made while contemplating. Just the possibility. I must spend the first days at home. I must see Dev and her mother. I must consider throwing a party somewhere. Above all, I must be with you. I must warm you, Surround you, love you, and be kind to you. Tell me anything that's on your mind. Write tons and tons and tons and plan our time. I would prefer not to get married, but want you to agree on the Point. In the battle, I was afraid for you, for my mother, for myself. Wait, we must, my love and my Darling. Let us meet, let us be, let us know, but do not let us now make any mistakes. I am anxious, I'm very anxious that you shouldn't misunderstand what I've said. Say what you think, but please Agree, and remember, I was afraid and I am still afraid. How good it is for us to see each other before I'm completely bald. A few fine little strands of hair on top of my head. Not much use to me. Now that I know I'll be able to tell you everything, I'm trying to write about my recent experiences. myself in such a short time. What I am focusing on now is the first letter from you saying that You know I'm all right, and then next saying, you know, I'm coming to you. I must try and keep out a hospital with some of these post-POW complaints. Plan a week somewhere, not Boscombe or Bournemouth And think of being together. The glory of you. When I was captive, I used to try and contact you. and think hard. Bessie, my dearest, I am all right. Do not worry. I never thought that I would get Through some way, but now it's over and you know that I'm fine and will be with you soon. to join and enjoy. Do not get overly excited outwardly. I am aware of the inner tumor, The clamor, but I am not too outwardly joyful. Moderation is my advice. Watch the buses. as you cross the streets. We're free of duties, and yesterday I went to visit our friends in Athens. Taking some of your coffee and cocoa, which they were very pleased to have. Thank you for sending. We were embraced very enthusiastically, kissing and so on, in continental fashion. I hope you won't start buying any clothes if you still have coupons left just because you think you Must look nice for me. I shall be sorry if you do. Just carry on as near as possible to normal. My return at the present time enables us to make public our mutual attachment. I shall tell my family that I hope to spend a week away with you somewhere during my leave. My counsel to you is to tell as few people as possible. To someone like Miss Ferguson, you can politely reply to observations that you thought it was your affair rather than hers. Try to avoid self-admiration You and saying a lot. This is my advice, nothing else. I hope you understand. I do. Never want it to be anything but our affair. Do not allow any intrusion. I don't know how long I shall get leave. I could get as little as 14 days, and I may get as much as a month. I wonder how I should tell you that I am in England. It will probably still be quicker to Send a telegram rather than a letter, and I hope to send you one announcing that I'm on the same island. I'll send another message when I'm actually soon to get on the train to London and you can ring. Lee Green 0509 when you think I have arrived there. You must bear in mind that I shall be with my brother, until we get home. Also, having been away from home for so long, my parents will want To see a lot of me. I hope that everything will work itself out without any unhappiness to anyone. I will be in great demand from two or three directions, and it will be difficult to manage without Offense. It's a strange thing, but I just can't seem to get started and write freely. All I'm thinking about is that I'm going home. I'm going to see her. It's a fact, a real thing. an impending event such as Trove Tuesday, Christmas Day, or the Lord Mayor's banquet. You have to be abroad, you have to be truly and completely sealed off from your intimates, from your home to realize what a gift it is to be going home. The few letters of yours that I had on I burned the day before our surrender, so no one but myself has read your words. In the first ten days of our captivity, I did not entertain a single tender thought about you; all I did was concentrate on trying to tell you I was all right. But when we had a few supplies dropped by aircraft at great risk to themselves in the misty, snowbound Greek mountain villages, and we began to hope we might get sent home upon our release. I've always wondered about you, about us. It's a pity that The winter weather won't be kind to us outdoors, but it'll be nice sitting next to you indoors. It will be wonderful to know that we have each other's support and sympathy. Won't it be wonderful to be together, truly together in the flesh, Not just to know that a letter is all we can send. I love you, Chris. Dear Dave, this is in memory of an anniversary, the anniversary of October 27th, 1943. When I first heard you singing in North Africa, that song brings back memories of the happiest times. I never knew. Memories of a GI show troupe, curtains made from barrage balloons, spotlights made from cocoa cans, rehearsals that ran late into the evenings, and a handsome A boy with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at the theatre in Canastel, perhaps a bit too much. muscatel and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately municipal opera house in Oran, a misunderstanding, an understanding in the wings just before opening Chorus. Drinks at Coq d'Or, dinner at the Auberge, a ring and a promise given. The show first armor, Muscatel, Scotch, wine. Someone had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible, a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean and a picnic of rations and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough not to know the score but not smart enough to realize that we wanted to be alone. A scrupulous piano player, competition, miserable days, and lonely nights. A cold, windy night, we crawled through the window. in a GI theatre and fell asleep on a cot, backstage locked in each other's arms. The shock when we awoke and realized that miraculously we had not been discovered. A swift drive to a cliff overlooking the sea, photographs taken during a stop among the purple grapes and cool shade leaves of a vineyard. The happiness when we were told we were going home and the misery When we learned that we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach. beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night and the tears that would not be stopped As I stood atop the sea wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon. We vowed we'd be together again back home, but fate knew better. You never made it there, so Dave I hope that wherever you are, these memories are as precious to you as they are to me. Good night. Sleep well, my love. Brian Keith