Words of yore

Having recently visited a Dickens exhibit at the Bodleian Library (www.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/news/dickens-and-his-world-exhibition-opens-this-saturday) in Oxford, one of the oldest and most magnificent libraries in Europe whose collections span more than a millennium of the human written record and a library which has a copy of every book published in this country, I was doing some research on Dickens and read about the letters he wrote to his close friend Wilkie Collins. Even though Dickens wrote in 1860, “Yesterday I burnt, in the field at Gad’s Hill, the accumulated letters and papers of twenty years”, and he destroyed every letter he received, he could not do the same with the letters he wrote to others, and as such, within ten years of his death, hundreds of his letters were published, and many more in subsequent years.

How valued these handwritten letters are, and always will be. How much we treasure a letter we find from an old friend, or a note a grandparent might have written. And yet, while we deem these handwritten, often torn, thinned pieces of paper jewels, with words that we read over and over again because they have become a precious token from that person whom we love and remember, we ourselves no longer write or post letters. We send e-mails and write long text messages, and these days, when we meet someone new, we often add them on BBM or WhatsApp so we can message them instantly. There are, of course, exceptions, but for the most part, the instantaneousness of e-mail and the speed with which we are able to communicate makes it better. This is the way the world is working, and so we must keep up.

I felt rather sad as I recently sat at the desk at the Sanderson Hotel (http://www.sandersonlondon.com/en-us/) and pulled out the two pieces of paper and envelopes from the open silver case that was lying on the desk, the only object lying out in this pristine white room thus demanding attention — well that is after discovering the silver wall piece at the back of the room with two oddly and stylishly shaped pieces sitting across it that weren’t just an art piece, but weights to be used, as demonstrated by the nine figure men performing different actions etched on the wall piece — and wondered when I had last posted a letter or even a card to anyone. E-cards that sing and move can be sent on the morning of a friend’s birthday, we can wish them on their Facebook wall so everyone is able to see who has wished them, but why can’t I just remember a week in advance and post a card? Years later, just as I once in a while browse through old cards from my tenth, fifteeth or eighteenth birthday, and vow never to throw them away, they will also look at it fondly, whether or not we’re part of each others’ lives in the future.

And here I was in this chic avant-garde hotel, seemingly the least likely of places a guest would write a letter, getting all sad about the state of affairs in my head and the world. I could have at least found a more profound place to write this, surrounded by books, perhaps a library or an old bookshop; though as a Sixties’ office block that housed the Sanderson fabrics company, this hotel is a rated historical building and considered a classic example of 20th-century architecture.

I think I might actually use these plain white Sanderson-headed papers and post them to someone somewhere. Perhaps, I think as I leave the room, our e-mails will be printed and exhibited in the future, made to look antique by changing the font and dipping the paper in coffee and tea, and the edges burnt. Who knows? Bottom line — nothing can or will replace the written word.

— Follow Meera Ashish on www.talefourcities.com and @meeraashish and @talefourcities