"as if the moon had fallen into my lap"

I am reading the Unaddressed Letters by Frank Swetthenham. It turns out it is a series of letters (most possibly written by him himself), addressed to several different people, but more frequently to one specific person. His Carina. This Carina, whether she existed or not, whether she is but a collective of images wrapped in one persona, is of no importance. The advantage of unaddressed letters, he said, is that one does not have to think of the other person, or the his reaction. Because in writing, the image of the addressed appears before us, and thus, under his gaze, or what really is under his influence, that we write. Thus we are constrained in both our language and subject.

Why not then just have a journal, you say? It’s because a journal never has an audience. A writer is a liar if he says he only writes for himself, secretly he conceals his desire to be read by at least one person, imaginary or not. For everyone desires to be heard, to be sought out, to be spoken to, whether by a stranger, a friend, a lover, god if you may.

Of course, to be the recipient of such letters (or emails, for that matter) is a feeling even more wonderful. Now, who’s going to write a real love letter to me?

p/s; he quotes frequently from persian poetry (most likely rumi/hafez), and has a thing for snakes, sunshine, india, and the whole eastern experience. i suppose if i lived at the beginning of 20th century tanah melayu would be extremely enchanting.