Boyd Ainslie | Red Riding Hood (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} ex_sanguine300) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} bellumletale,@ 2010-02-19 23:36:00 |
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[The letter is sent via standard USPS to Piedmont Village, and it includes a page from the book of of love letters that matches the page Daniel received on Valentine's Day and a printed copy of two separate sets of the letters between Boyd and the Venetian, tied with a ribbon]
March 1820 Sweetest Fanny, You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? My dear Girl I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you the more have I lov'd. In every way - even my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you. I have vex'd you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was fill'd with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time. You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov'd your Beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish'd with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy - but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment - upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about our Love in your last note is an immense pleasure to me; however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: not will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out -- but here is Mrs Wylie -- when she is gone I shall be awake for you. -- Remembrances to your Mother. Your affectionate, J. Keats |
[The actual letter from Boyd is written completely in Italian, with a few common errors throughout, mostly based on common spoken language rather than written language]
Daniel, It's strange writing you a letter, and even stranger writing it in something other than English. I got very used to writing with the Venetian who I told you about, but this is different somehow. He didn't know who I was, so he took me very seriously, without all the doubts you have because of my age. And I know you have them, handsome, so don't even try telling me otherwise. But that's okay, you have to admit I'm growing up at some point, don't you? Your Shakespeare says that Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May and summer's lease hath all too short a date, and I'm pretty sure he's talking about how a person isn't young for long. And really, Daniel, they ain't. You think I'm too young to think right, but in five years you'd feel different, and sugar, five years is a blink in a lifetime. We don't have so many years in us, and it isn't about the number of years we've lived. I ever tell you about the foster family I lived with? They spent most of their time scamming the government for money for the kids they kept. They give like three thousand a month for a kid, and lots of folks just keep the kids for the cash they bring in. I lived in their basement, and I did all the working for the house. Cleaning, washing, feeding. Ironing for the father, and driving the kids born to the mother. They had three little ones, and I near raised all of them while I was there. Age, sugar, it ain't a number. I know you think I'm real silly for being with Shane, what with what's happened. But let me set the record straight about that. I didn't know things were gonna be like this with him. I didn't really understand all that was wrong with him at first, and I thought all that mattered was having someone love me. That isn't the case, and I know it now. It isn't about sex either. Love, I think, the kind your Shakespeare writes about, it's about being still and quiet with a person, and not needing anything but that. It's about putting someone before you, and never needing to actually be hurt by it, because they're doing the same. It's about having someone you can turn to whenever you're real scared, and being able to overcome your own fears when they're scared of the same things you are, just for their benefit. I think it's about making one another better, making one another stronger. And it is about wanting, but it's about wanting and taking comfort and giving it - but it isn't about needing. Still, a girl likes to be desired. So I'll hold onto that. I don't think your Shakespeare would mind. You know, that feeling when you walk into a room and someone looks at you like you're the only thing they see? I want that, and I think that can happen when you're eighteen or when you're eighty. It's not just about what's on the outside, longing. I managed to fill a whole letter without ever saying what I wanted to say to you, which is this: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end. Sometimes your Shakespeare's okay. Go outside one hour a day. That's an order, handsome. I'll see you soon. Write me back? Ain |