More Letters of Note

by Shaun Usher

  Our agency is getting big. That’s something to be happy about. But it’s something to worry about, too, and I don’t mind telling you I’m damned worried. I’m worried that we’re going to fall into the trap of bigness, that we’re going to worship techniques instead of substance, that we’re going to follow history instead of making it, that we’re going to be drowned by superficialities instead of buoyed up by solid fundamentals. I’m worried lest hardening of the creative arteries begin to set in.

  There are a lot of great technicians in advertising. And unfortunately they talk the best game. They know all the rules. They can tell you that people in an ad will get you greater readership. They can tell you that a sentence should be this short or that long. They can tell you that body copy should be broken up for easier reading. They can give you fact after fact after fact. They are the scientists of advertising. But there’s one little rub. Advertising is fundamentally persuasion and persuasion happens to be not a science, but an art.

  It’s that creative spark that I’m so jealous of for our agency and that I am so desperately fearful of losing. I don’t want academicians. I don’t want scientists. I don’t want people who do the right things. I want people who do inspiring things.

  In the past year I must have interviewed about 80 people – writers and artists. Many of them were from the so-called giants of the agency field. It was appalling to see how few of these people were genuinely creative. Sure, they had advertising know-how. Yes, they were up on advertising technique.

  But look beneath the technique and what did you find? A sameness, a mental weariness, a mediocrity of ideas. But they could defend every ad on the basis that it obeyed the rules of advertising. It was like worshiping a ritual instead of the God.

  All this is not to say that technique is unimportant. Superior technical skill will make a good ad better. But the danger is a preoccupation with technical skill or the mistaking of technical skill for creative ability. The danger lies in the temptation to buy routinized men who have a formula for advertising. The danger lies In the natural tendency to go after tried-and-true talent that will not make us stand out in competition but rather make us look like all the others.

  If we are to advance we must emerge as a distinctive personality. We must develop our own philosophy and not have the advertising philosophy of others imposed on us.

  Let us blaze new trails. Let us prove to the world that good taste, good art, and good writing can be good selling.

  Respectfully,

  Bill Bernbach

  Letter No. 068

  YOUR TYPE IS A DIME A DOZEN

  HUNTER S. THOMPSON TO ANTHONY BURGESS

  August 17th, 1973

  Born in 1917 in Manchester, England, the late Anthony Burgess is best known – in part due to Stanley Kubrick’s big-screen adaptation – for A Clockwork Orange, the widely revered dystopian novel that first broke ground in 1962. But this was far from his only achievement. Burgess was prolific, versatile, and highly intelligent: he published 33 novels, 25 nonfiction titles, produced poetry, short stories and screenplays, composed three symphonies, wrote hundreds of musical pieces, and spoke nine languages fluently. He also, when time allowed, worked as a journalist, and in August of 1973 found himself in Rome struggling to conjure up a “thinkpiece” owed to Rolling Stone magazine. Defeated, he suggested “a 50,000-word novella I’ve just finished, all about the condition humaine etc. Perhaps some of that would be better than a mere thinkpiece”. Unluckily for him, that offer landed on the desk of Hunter S. Thompson.

  August 17, 1973

  Woody Creek, CO

  Dear Mr. Burgess,

  Herr Wenner has forwarded your useless letter from Rome to the National Affairs Desk for my examination and/or reply.

  Unfortunately, we have no International Gibberish Desk, or it would have ended up there.

  What kind of lame, half-mad bullshit are you trying to sneak over on us? When Rolling Stone asks for “a thinkpiece,” goddamnit, we want a fucking Thinkpiece ... and don’t try to weasel out with any of your limey bullshit about a “50,000 word novella about the condition humaine, etc....”

  Do you take us for a gang of brainless lizards? Rich hoodlums? Dilettante thugs?

  You lazy cocksucker. I want that Thinkpiece on my desk by Labor Day. And I want it ready for press. The time has come & gone when cheapjack scum like you can get away with the kind of scams you got rich from in the past.

  Get your worthless ass out of the piazza and back to the typewriter. Your type is a dime a dozen around here, Burgess, and I’m fucked if I’m going to stand for it any longer.

  Sincerely,

  Hunter S. Thompson

  Letter No. 069

  WE CAN CHANGE THE WORLD

  JOHN LENNON TO ERIC CLAPTON

  c.1969

  In 1969, the year before the break-up of The Beatles, John Lennon and Yoko Ono decided to recruit some of their friends in the world of showbiz to form a supergroup, to be known as the Plastic Ono Band. This eight-page letter, handwritten by Lennon, was their attempt to bring Eric Clapton on board. And join he did, if only for a short period, as did many other notable musicians – Keith Moon, Billy Preston and Phil Spector, to name but three – until the band’s temporary retirement in 1975. In 2009, the Plastic Ono Band reformed; their last album, Take Me to the Land of Hell, was released in 2013.

  Dear Eric and

  I’ve been meaning to write or call you for a few weeks now. I think maybe writing will give you and yours more time to think.

  You must know by now that Yoko and I rate your music and yourself very highly, always have. You also know the kind of music we’ve been making and hope to make. Anyway the point is, after missing the Bangla-Desh concert, we began to feel more and more like going on the road, but not the way I used to with the Beatles, – night after night of torture. We mean to enjoy ourselves, take it easy, and maybe even see some of the places we go to! We have many ‘revolutionary’ ideas for presenting shows that completely involve the audience – not just as ‘Superstars’ ‘up there’ – blessing the people – but that’s another letter really.

  I’ll get more to the point. We’ve asked Klaus Jim Keltner, Nicky Hopkins – Phil Spector even! to form a ‘nucleus’ group (Plastic Ono Band) – and between us all would decide what – if any – augmentation to the group we’d like – e.g. saxs, vocal group, they all agreed so far – and of course we had YOU!!! in mind as soon as we decided.

  In the past when Nicky was working around (Stones, etc) bringing your girl/woman/wife was frowned on – with us it’s the opposite, Nicky’s missus – will also come with us – on stage if she wants (Yoko has ideas for her!) – or backstage. Our uppermost concern is to have a happy group in body and mind. Nobody will be asked to do anything that they don’t want to, no-one will be held to any contract of any sort – (unless they wanted to, of course!).

  Back to music. I’ve/we’ve long admired your music – and always kept an eye open to see what your up to of late lately. I really feel that I/we can bring out the best in you – (same kind of security financial or otherwise will help) but the main thing is the music. I consider Klaus, Jim, Nicky, Phil, Yoko, you could make the kind of sound that could bring back the Balls in rock ‘n’ roll.

  Both of us have been thru the same kind of shit/pain that I know you’ve had – and I know we could help each other in that area – but mainly Eric – I know I can bring out something great – in fact greater in you that has been so far evident in your music, I hope to bring out the same kind of greatness in all of us – which I know will happen if/when we get together. I’m not trying to pressure you in any way and would quite understand if you decide against joining us, we would still love and respect you. We’re not asking you for your ‘name’, I’m sure you know this – it’s your mind we want!

  Yoko and I are not interested in earning bread from public appearances, but neither do we expect the rest of the band (who mostly have familys) to work for free – they/you m
ust all be happy money wise as well – otherwise what’s the use for them to join us. We don’t ask you/them to ratify everything we believe politically – but we’re certainly interested in ‘revolutionizing’ the world thru music, we’d love to ‘do’ Russia, China, Hungary Poland, etc.

  A friend of ours just got back from Moscow, and the kids over there are really hip – they have all the latest sounds on tape from giant radios they have. ‘Don’t come without your guitar’ was the message they sent us, there are millions of people in the East – who need to be exposed to our kind of freedom/music/. We can change the world – and have a ball at the same time.

  We don’t want to work under such pressure that we feel dead on stage or have to pep ourselves up to live, maybe we could do 2 shows a week even, it would be entirely up to us. One idea that I had which we’ve discussed tentatively (nothing definite) goes like this,

  ‘I know we have to rehearse sometimes or other, I’m sick of going on and jamming every live session. I’ve always wanted to go across the Pacific from the U.S. thru all those beautiful islands – across to Australia, New Zealand, Japan, – wherever, you know – Tahiti – Tonga – etc, so I came up with this.

  How about a kind of ‘Easy Rider’ at sea. I mean we get EMI or a sane film co., to finance a big ship with 30 people aboard (including crew) – we take 8 track recording equipment with us (mine probably) movie equipment – and we rehearse on the way over – record if we want, play anywhere we fancy – say we film from L.A. to Tahiti, we stop there if we want – maybe have the film developed there – stay a week or as long as we want – collect the film, (of course we’ll probably film wherever we stay (if we want) and edit it on board etc. (Having just finished a movie we made around our albums ‘Imagine’ & ‘Fly’ – it’s a beautiful surreal film, very surreal, all music, only about two words spoken in the whole thing! We know we are ready to make a major movie). Anyway it’s just a thought, we’d always stay as near to land as possible, and of course, we’d take doctors etc, in case of any kind of bother. We’d always be able to get to a place where someone could fly off if they’ve had enough. The whole trip could take 3-4-5-6 months, depending how we all felt – all families, children whatever are welcome etc. Please don’t think you have to go along with the boat trip, to be in the band. I just wanted to let you know everything we’ve been talking about. (I thought we’d really be ready to hit the road after such a healthy restful rehearsal.)

  Anyway there it is, if you want to talk more please call us, or even come over here to New York. We’re at the St. Regis, here til Nov. 30 at least (753-4500- ext/room 1701) all expenses paid of course! Or write. At least think about it, please don’t be frightened, I understand paranoia, only too well, I think it could only do good for you, to work with people who love and respect you, and that’s from all of us.

  Lots of love to you both from

  John & Yoko.

  Letter No. 070

  YOU ARE A TRUE MAN

  BRAM STOKER TO WALT WHITMAN

  1876

  In 1876, Walt Whitman received a letter from a fan who, like so many others, had fallen in love with his controversial, groundbreaking collection of poetry, Leaves of Grass, and was keen to connect with its creator. In fact, that young government clerk was Bram Stoker, future author of Dracula – an immeasurably influential horror novel published 25 years later that needs little introduction. Included with Stoker’s letter was another missive – a far lengthier, honest piece that begins with an invitation to burn the letter itself – that was written four years previous in draft form, but which he had failed to send. Both are reprinted here, along with Whitman’s reply.

  Much to Stoker’s delight, the pair met in 1884, and twice more before Whitman’s death.

  * * *

  Dublin, Feb. 14, 1876.

  My dear Mr. Whitman.

  I hope you will not consider this letter from an utter stranger a liberty. Indeed, I hardly feel a stranger to you, nor is this the first letter that I have written to you. My friend Edward Dowden has told me often that you like new acquaintances or I should rather say friends. And as an old friend I send you an enclosure which may interest you. Four years ago I wrote the enclosed draft of a letter which I intended to copy out and send to you—it has lain in my desk since then—when I heard that you were addressed as Mr. Whitman. It speaks for itself and needs no comment. It is as truly what I wanted to say as that light is light.

  The four years which have elapsed have made me love your work fourfold, and I can truly say that I have ever spoken as your friend. You know what hostile criticism your work sometimes evokes here, and I wage a perpetual war with many friends on your behalf. But I am glad to say that I have been the means of making your work known to many who were scoffers at first. The years which have passed have not been uneventful to me, and I have felt and thought and suffered much in them, and I can truly say that from you I have had much pleasure and much consolation—and I do believe that your open earnest speech has not been thrown away on me or that my life and thought fail to be marked with its impress. I write this openly because I feel that with you one must be open. We have just had tonight a hot debate on your genius at the Fortnightly Club in which I had the privilege of putting forward my views—I think with success.

  Do not think me cheeky for writing this. I only hope we may sometime meet and I shall be able perhaps to say what I cannot write. Dowden promised to get me a copy of your new edition and I hope that for any other work which you may have you will let me always be an early subscriber. I am sorry that you’re not strong. Many of us are hoping to see you in Ireland. We had arranged to have a meeting for you. I do not know if you like getting letters. If you do I shall only be too happy to send you news of how thought goes among the men I know. With truest wishes for your health and happiness believe me,

  Your friend

  Bram Stoker

  * * *

  DRAFT

  Dublin, Ireland, Feb. 18, 1872.

  If you are the man I take you to be you will like to get this letter. If you are not I don’t care whether you like it or not and only ask you to put it into the fire without reading any farther. But I believe you will like it. I don’t think there is a man living, even you who are above the prejudices of the class of small-minded men, who wouldn’t like to get a letter from a younger man, a stranger, across the world—a man living in an atmosphere prejudiced to the truths you sing and your manner of singing them. The idea that arises in my mind is whether there is a man living who would have the pluck to burn a letter in which he felt the smallest atom of interest without reading it. I believe you would and that you believe you would yourself. You can burn this now and test yourself, and all I will ask for my trouble of writing this letter, which for all I can tell you may light your pipe with or apply to some more ignoble purpose—is that you will in some manner let me know that my words have tested your impatience. Put it in the fire if you like—but if you do you will miss the pleasure of this next sentence, which ought to be that you have conquered an unworthy impulse.

  A man who is uncertain of his own strength might try to encourage himself by a piece of bravo, but a man who can write, as you have written, the most candid words that ever fell from the lips of mortal man—a man to whose candor Rousseau’s Confessions is reticence—can have no fear for his own strength. If you have gone this far you may read the letter and I feel in writing now that I am talking to you. If I were before your face I would like to shake hands with you, for I feel that I would like you. I would like to call you Comrade and to talk to you as men who are not poets do not often talk. I think that at first a man would be ashamed, for a man cannot in a moment break the habit of comparative reticence that has become a second nature to him; but I know I would not long be ashamed to be natural before you. You are a true man, and I would like to be one myself, and so I would be towards you as a brother and as a pupil to his master. In this age no man becomes worthy of the name without an effort. You have
shaken off the shackles and your wings are free. I have the shackles on my shoulders still—but I have no wings. If you are going to read this letter any further I should tell you that I am not prepared to “give up all else” so far as words go. The only thing I am prepared to give up is prejudice, and before I knew you I had begun to throw overboard my cargo, but it is not all gone yet.

  I do not know how you will take this letter. I have not addressed you in any form as I hear that you dislike to a certain degree the conventional forms in letters. I am writing to you because you are different from other men. If you were the same as the mass I would not write at all. As it is I must either call you Walt Whitman or not call you at all—and I have chosen the latter course. I don’t know whether it is usual for you to get letters from utter strangers who have not even the claim of literary brotherhood to write you. If it is you must be frightfully tormented with letters and I am sorry to have written this. I have, however, the claim of liking you—for your words are your own soul and even if you do not read my letter it is no less a pleasure to me to write it. Shelley wrote to William Godwin and they became friends. I am not Shelley and you are not Godwin and so I will only hope that sometime I may meet you face to face and perhaps shake hands with you. If I ever do it will be one of the greatest pleasures of my life.

  If you care to know who it is that writes this, my name is Abraham Stoker (Junior). My friends call me Bram. I live at 43 Harcourt St., Dublin. I am a clerk in the service of the Crown on a small salary. I am twenty-four years old. Have been champion at our athletic sports (Trinity College, Dublin) and have won about a dozen cups. I have also been President of the College Philosophical Society and an art and theatrical critic of a daily paper. I am six feet two inches high and twelve stone weight naked and used to be forty-one or forty-two inches round the chest. I am ugly but strong and determined and have a large bump over my eyebrows. I have a heavy jaw and a big mouth and thick lips—sensitive nostrils—a snubnose and straight hair. I am equal in temper and cool in disposition and have a large amount of self control and am naturally secretive to the world. I take a delight in letting people I don’t like—people of mean or cruel or sneaking or cowardly disposition—see the worst side of me. I have a large number of acquaintances and some five or six friends—all of which latter body care much for me.