Journal Entry: Wed May 5, 2010, 7:26 AM
It's been quite a long time since I wrote anything here.
But today I was writing a letter to a friend and I myself liked one piece, where I started to descant on letter writing.
I think it perfectly fits my "brain issues collection" ))
So, I was recently thinking a lot about our modern way and etiquette of writing letters. It was, in fact, triggered by the selection of Keats's letters. It is amazing, how our letter writing habits have changed during a couple of centuries (which is a nick of time by universal merits). From his lines you can literally see the calm and smooth flow of thoughts, framed in words. He starts writing one day and then continues the other, so that a letter becomes a one-week-long diary of his everyday life. To read it, to perceive this idea is as if to look out of the window of history to another era or another universe, where people have different speed of time flow.
Now, we have forgot all about the art of letter-writing. We are always in a hurry, running from home to work and from work to some meeting, or class, or club, or whatever else, and then home again just to have a few hours of sleep and on the next morning this race begins anew. And we're always and everywhere late for everything. Or so we feel anyway. We want to do everything in one hour, one minute, one moment, and there are never enough moments for us. We don't remember, how our ancestors used to wake up, have their morning tea or coffee, then go to the study and write. Just write. Letters, diaries, articles, remarks, responses, poems, ideas, thoughts
We don't do it anymore. We write in the very same way we live trying put as much is possible in as small volume as possible. We don't want one long letter once a month, we need dozens of sms every day. Our messages are compact, concentrated and ugly we shorten phrases and words to squeeze a message into a limited number of characters (all these innovations like 2day, 4 U, etc. are giving me the habdabs). So we read and forget all our letters. Well, some of them we do keep, maybe, only until our inbox is overflown and we have to clean it. We don't copy our letters, we don't reread them, we don't respect or value them, because there is nothing to respect. So we live and nothing remains in memory of us. No words, no thoughts, just electronic bits of information, which probably (hopefully) will survive. This is our only hope, and if this hope deceives us, all memory of us is lost. And then our distant heirs will know more about our ancestors, then about ourselves.