by Shaun Usher
I am very proud of the way you are able to think thru the problems which life brings you—and of the way you meet them. And I consider it a great privilege to have you tell me about them. I’m so glad you are happy dear.
Very lovingly,
Margaret
Letter No. 075
WE PRESS YOU CLOSE AND KISS YOU WITH ALL OUR STRENGTH
ETHEL AND JULIUS ROSENBERG TO THEIR SONS
June 19th, 1953
At New York’s Sing Sing Prison on the evening of June 19th, 1953, married couple Ethel and Julius Rosenberg became the first Americans ever to be executed for espionage, sentenced to death thanks to a testimony from Ethel’s brother, David Greenglass, which placed them at the centre of a Soviet spy ring. On the morning of their execution, Ethel and Julius wrote a letter to their two young sons, Robert and Michael. Three years earlier, whilst working on the Manhattan Project as a machinist, David had been arrested on suspicion of selling atomic secrets to a Soviet spy; keen to minimise his own punishment, he soon supplied names to the FBI and specifically recalled his sister typing out the stolen notes he had passed on. Years later, with his sister dead, David admitted that he had lied in court about her involvement in an effort to save the real typist, his pregnant wife, from imprisonment.
Michael Rosenberg reads about his parents with his brother Robert
June 19, 1953
Dearest Sweethearts, my most precious children,
Only this morning it looked like we might be together again after all. Now that his cannot be, I want so much for you to know all that I have come to know. Unfortunately, I may write only a few simple words; the rest your own lives must teach you, even as mine taught me.
At first, of course, you will grieve bitterly for us, but you will not grieve alone. That is our consolation and it must eventually be yours.
Eventually, too you must come to believe that life is worth the living. Be comforted that even now, with the end of ours slowly approaching, that we know this with a conviction that defeats the executioner!
Your lives must teach you, too, that good cannot really flourish in the midst of evil; that freedom and all the things that go to make up a truly satisfying and worthwhile life, must sometimes be purchased very dearly. Be comforted then that we were serene and understood with the deepest kind of understanding, that civilization had not as yet progressed to the point where life did not have to be lost for the sake of life; and that we were comforted in the sure knowledge that others would carry on after us.
We wish we might have had the tremendous joy and gratification of living our lives out with you. Your Daddy who is with me in these last momentous hours, sends his heart and all the love that is in it for his dearest boys. Always remember that we were innocent and could not wrong our conscience.
We press you close and kiss you with all our strength.
Lovingly,
DADDY AND MOMMY
JULIE ETHEL
Letter No. 076
HOW DID YOU GET INVENTED?
ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY TO LULU
March 24th 2011
In 2011, journalist Alex Renton’s six-year-old daughter, Lulu, wrote a brief letter to God and tasked her father with ensuring that it reached the intended recipient. Unsure of how to deal with such a request, Alex, a non-believer, sent copies of the letter to family members, Christian friends, the local Scottish Episcopal Church, the Church of Scotland, and the Scottish Catholic Church, all with varying and unsatisfactory degrees of success. It was only when he wrote to the Anglican Communion that he finally received a letter that so perfectly and gently answered his daughter’s question. It was written by Rowan Williams, then-Archbishop of Canterbury. Said Alex soon after:
‘She listened quietly as I read the Archbishop’s letter and it went down well. What worked particularly was the idea of “God’s story”.’
“Well?” I asked when we reached the end. “What do you think?” She thought a little. “Well, I have very different ideas. But he has a good one.”’
To God how did you get invented?
From Lulu
* * *
Dear Lulu,
Your dad has sent on your letter and asked if I have any answers. It’s a difficult one! But I think God might reply a bit like this –
’Dear Lulu – Nobody invented me – but lots of people discovered me and were quite surprised. They discovered me when they looked round at the world and thought it was really beautiful or really mysterious and wondered where it came from. They discovered me when they were very very quiet on their own and felt a sort of peace and love they hadn’t expected.
Then they invented ideas about me – some of them sensible and some of them not very sensible. From time to time I sent them some hints – specially in the life of Jesus – to help them get closer to what I’m really like.
But there was nothing and nobody around before me to invent me. Rather like somebody who writes a story in a book, I started making up the story of the world and eventually invented human beings like you who could ask me awkward questions!’
And then he’d send you lots of love and sign off.
I know he doesn’t usually write letters, so I have to do the best I can on his behalf. Lots of love from me too.
Archbishop Rowan
Letter No. 077
WHY I AM AN ATHEIST
MINNIE PARRISH TO BLUE-GRASS BLADE
1903
In 1903, Kentucky-based newspaper Blue-grass Blade asked its readers to write in and contribute to a forthcoming feature named “Why I am An Atheist”. Hundreds of letters soon arrived and many were subsequently reprinted in the paper. Here is just one of those replies. It was written by Minerva Ola “Minnie” Parrish, a 23-year-old recently divorced mother of four who later went on to become one of the first female doctors to practice in North Texas. She passed away in 1965.
Dr. Minerva Ola “Minnie” Parrish
Why I am an atheist
Because it has dawned upon me that it is right to be so, and upon investigation I find no real evidence of the divine origin of the scriptures. And because I cannot, as a refined and respectable woman, take to my bosom as a daily guide a book of such low morals and degrading influences. Written by a lot of priests, I cannot accept a salvation that is based wholly upon the dreams of an ancient and superstitious people, with no proof save blind faith.
Everything that so many people think transpires from the supernatural, and many things that would really perplex the average mind, have a natural and material foundation in the workings of the human mind; that is, things that are not connected with our solar system.
It is ignorance of the scientific working of their own natures and mind that keep so much “mystery” in the air; and as long as there is a mystery afloat the people will ascribe it to the supernatural.
I am an Atheist because I know the Bible will not do to depend upon. I have tried it, and found it wanting.
In fact, I found in the scriptures the origin of women’s slayer, and that it was one of God’s main points to oppress women and keep them in the realms of ignorance.
I am in the ranks of Liberalism because of its elevating principles, its broad road to freedom of thought, speech, and investigation.
MINNIE O. PARRISH
23 years old
Leonard, Texas
Letter No. 078
YOURS IN DISTRESS
ALAN TURING TO NORMAN ROUTLEDGE
February, 1952
Alan Turing was a human being of exceptional intelligence – a mathematical genius – and worked as one of the leading code-breakers during World War II. He is also considered to be the “father of modern computing” thanks to his pioneering work in the field of computer science. In 1950, before the term “artificial intelligence” had been coined, he posed the question, “Can computers think?” and proposed the Turing Test. His achievements are staggering. In 1952, he was charged with gross indecency after admitting to a sexual relationship with anothe
r man, and as a result was told to choose either imprisonment or chemical castration as punishment. He chose the latter. Alan Turing was found dead on June 8th, 1954, a day after taking his own life. He was aged just 41.
In 1952, shortly before pleading guilty, Turing wrote to his friend and fellow mathematician, Norman Routledge.
Hollymeade
Adlington Road
Wilmslow
My dear Norman,
I don’t think I really do know much about jobs, except the one I had during the war, and that certainly did not involve any travelling. I think they do take on conscripts. It certainly involved a good deal of hard thinking, but whether you’d be interested I don’t know. Philip Hall was in the same racket and on the whole, I should say, he didn’t care for it. However I am not at present in a state in which I am able to concentrate well, for reasons explained in the next paragraph.
I’ve now got myself into the kind of trouble that I have always considered to be quite a possibility for me, though I have usually rated it at about 10:1 against. I shall shortly be pleading guilty to a charge of sexual offences with a young man. The story of how it all came to be found out is a long and fascinating one, which I shall have to make into a short story one day, but haven’t the time to tell you now. No doubt I shall emerge from it all a different man, but quite who I’ve not found out.
Glad you enjoyed broadcast. Jefferson certainly was rather disappointing though. I’m afraid that the following syllogism may be used by some in the future.
Turing believes machines think
Turing lies with men
Therefore machines do not think
Yours in distress
Alan
Letter No. 079
OH MY ASS BURNS LIKE FIRE!
MOZART TO MARIANNE
November 5th, 1777
When he wasn’t busy composing some of the most beautiful music ever to seduce the human ear, the legend that is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could often be found writing shockingly crude and often baffling letters to his family. The fine example seen here, admirably translated by Robert Spaethling, was penned to Mozart’s 19-year-old cousin and possible love interest, Marianne – also known as “Betsie” (“little cousin”) – in November of 1777, at which point the poop-loving musical genius was 21 years of age.
Note: The term “spuni cuni fait” was used in many of Mozart’s letters. Its meaning is unknown.
Dearest cozz buzz!
I have received reprieved your highly esteemed writing biting, and I have noted doted that my uncle garfuncle, my aunt slant, and you too, are all well mell. We, too, thank god, are in good fettle kettle. Today I got a letter setter from my Papa Haha safely into my paws claws. I hope you too have gotten rotten my note quote that I wrote to you from Mannheim. So much the better, better the much so! But now for some thing more sensuble.
So sorry to hear that Herr Abbate Salate has had another stroke choke. But I hope with the help of God fraud the consequences will not be dire mire. You are writing fighting that you keep your criminal promise which you gave me before my departure from Augspurg, and will do it soon moon. Well, I will most likely find that regretable. You write further, indeed you let it all out, you expose yourself, you indicate to me, you bring me the news, you announce onto me, you state in broad daylight, you demand, you desire, you wish you want, you like, you command that I, too, should send you my Portrait. Eh bien, I shall mail fail it for sure. Oui, by the love of my skin, I shit on your nose, so it runs down your chin.
apropós. do you also have the spuni cuni fait?—what?—whether you still love me?—I believe it! so much the better, better the much so! Yes, that’s the way of the world, I’m told, one has the purse, the other has the gold; whom do you side with?—with me, n’est-ce pas?—I believe it! Now things are even worse, apropós.
Wouldn’t you like to visit Herr Gold-smith again?—but what for?—what?—nothing!—just to inquire, I guess, about the Spuni Cuni fait, nothing else, nothing else?—well, well, all right. Long live all those who, who—who—who—how does it go on?—I now wish you a good night, shit in your bed with all your might, sleep with peace on your mind, and try to kiss your own behind; I now go off to never-never land and sleep as much as I can stand. Tomorrow we’ll speak freak sensubly with each other. Things I must you tell a lot of, believe it you hardly can, but hear tomorrow it already will you, be well in the meantime. Oh my ass burns like fire! what on earth is the meaning of this!—maybe muck wants to come out? yes, yes, muck, I know you, see you, taste you—and—what’s this—is it possible? Ye Gods!—Oh ear of mine, are you deceiving me?—No, it’s true—what a long and melancholic sound!—today is the write I fifth this letter. Yesterday I talked with the stern Frau Churfustin, and tomorrow, on the 6th, I will give a performance in her chambers, as the Furstin-Chur said to me herself. Now for something real sensuble!
A letter or letters addressed to me will come into your hands, and I must beg of you—where?—well a fox is no hare—yes there!—Now, where was I?—oh yes, now, I remember: letters, letters will come—but what kind of letters?—well now, letters for me, of course, I want to make sure that you send these to me; I will let you know where I’ll be going from Mannheim. Now, Numero 2: I’m asking you, why not?—I’m asking you, dearest numbskull, why not?—if you are writing anyway to Madame Tavernier in Munich, please include regards from me to the Mademoiselles Freysinger, why not?—Curious! why not?—and to the Younger, I mean Frauline Josepha, tell her I’ll send my sincere apologies, why not?—why should I not apologize?—Curious!—I don’t know why not?—I want to apologize that I haven’t yet sent her the sonata that I promised, but I will send it as soon as possible, why not?—what—why not?—why shouldn’t I send it?—why should I not transmit it?—why not?—Curious! I wouldn’t know why not?—well, then you’ll do me this favor;—why not?—why shouldn’t you do this for me?—why not?, it’s so strange! After all, I’ll do it to you too, if you want me to, why not?—why shouldn’t I do it to you?—curious! why not?—I wouldn’t know why not?—and don’t forget to send my Regards to the Papa and Mama of the 2 young ladies, for it is terrible to be letting and forgetting one’s father and mother. Later, when the sonata is finished,—I will send you the same, and a letter to boot; and you will be so kind as to forward the same to Munich.
And now I must close and that makes me morose. Dear Herr Uncle, shall we go quickly to the Holy Cross Covent and see whether anybody is still up?—we won’t stay long, just ring the bell, that’s all. Now I must relate to you a sad story that happened just this minute. As I am in the middle of my best writing, I hear a noise in the street. I stop writing—get up, go to the window—and—the noise is gone—I sit down again, start writing once more—I have barely written ten words when I hear the noise again—I rise—but as I rise, I can still hear something but very faint—it smells like something burning—wherever I go it stinks, when I look out the window, the smell goes away, when I turn my head back to the room, the smell comes back—finally My Mama says to me: I bet you let one go?—I don’t think so, Mama. yes, yes, I’m quite certain, I put it to the test, stick my finger in my ass, then put it to my nose, and—there is the proof! Mama was right!
Old young Sauschwanz
Wolfgang Amadé Rosenkranz
From us two Travelers a thousand
Regards to my uncle and aunt.
To every good friend I send
My greet feet; addio nitwit.
Love true true true until the grave,
If I live that long and do behave.
Mannheim, 5 November, 1777
Letter No. 080
TERRY TOMA
DAWN POWELL TO MABEL POWELL POCOCK AND PHYLLIS POWELL COOK
April 15th, 1949
American author Dawn Powell was born in Ohio in 1896. Her early childhood was fraught with difficulty, the pain caused by the death of her mother when she was seven sadly compounded by the introduction of an abusive replacement in the form of her fa
ther’s aggressive new wife. But Dawn persevered, going on to become a prolific writer of countless novels, short stories and plays, many of which remained underappreciated until long after her death, and of hundreds of entertaining letters that often bring to mind the very best of Dorothy Parker. In 1949, after years of health problems, doctors finally removed from her chest a teratoma – a type of tumour often containing hair, bone, and even eyes – and as she recovered in hospital, with nothing else to do, she wrote to her sisters with a typically amusing account of the ordeal.
Author Dawn Powell at the Cafe Lafayette, 1946
Dear Phyllis and Mabel:
Here I am--dismissed private nurses, washed my own hair and had my ass out for iron shots like a little beaver by 7 a.m. I could go home but Dr. Solley thinks I should have my blood count up with some iron and sleep.
Here is the family scandal I must now reveal. This here cyst (dermoid) or terra toma is a twin. That is, it is my own frustrated twin, a type of cyst that occurs (not very often) in the chest or other sections--even the head of a man or woman. It is made up of parts of various things--hair, teeth, sometimes an eye or a jawbone. It lives off your heart and lung and is “benign”--unless it gets overgrown and shoves out the organs you need which mine started to do. It was as large as a grapefruit and had cut off all but ⅓ of my lung space so it was about ready to shove me out. These twin cysts run in the family. (I shouldn’t be surprised but what Grandma’s choking spells, etc., indicated one.) They are simply parasites. Well, I was so pleased to hear about my twin Terry Toma that it kept me fascinated right along. It had the staff here fascinated too, so the operation--a five-hour job with three transfusions (3 pts. R.H. negative blood @ $105!)--had quite a gallery of chest experts. The surgeon is one of the best thoracic surgeons--Alexander Ada, a fine-looking, keen, very distinguished man about 45. The nurses who were witnesses said he lost six pounds, also that he was in my chest up to his shoulders. Collapsed a lung, removed a rib, then found cyst glued to heart so it took 45 minutes to slice it off there, then it was glued to lung. I was put on oxygen tank and had a tube draining my chest off and a needle infusing glucose in my arm and a behind full of penicillin jabs. In fact, it was something but I was not at all nervous because (a) I was in the best possible hands and (b) I didn’t think I’d come out of it anyway so what could I do…?
