Description

pp. 432, “This is a book of letters. I wrote some of them to close friends; some of them were entries in notebooks and journals, letters to myself. Many of them were written specifically to you, the reader I’ve never met… I tried to imagine who you are, who you might be. I envisioned a multitude of people and occupations, a thousand possible lives, kitchens and bedrooms and living rooms inhabited by objects that continually whisper your history. I saw you in strange countries, in different cities, walking in fields and streets, on lakesides, in restaurants, coffee shops, waiting, waiting for the bus. When we travel in different provinces, or on separate continents, even when we simply seek a different light, we lose each other over and over again. Then a letter arrives, and we are found… I take my envelopes like gifts to the post office, where rhey are weighed and stamped and checked once more, again, because I must be careful… The words in an envelope are as valuable as the words in a mouth. So. Slip Montreal’s first red leaf of autumn into the envelope, Enclose the ticket stubs from the museum in Madrid, or from the one in Fredericton. Fold in the dried petals of a flower whose name remains unknown. Press oregano and sweet basil between the pages. Send any talisman that will fit into the narrow pocket of an envelope. Send words. No matter what it actually says, every letter proclaims, ‘I am alive here, in this place, now.'” Signed by Karen Connelly on the title page.