Dear Nosy,
Today I will ditch all hope of truth, clarity, and fine expression. These are virtues past question, but in my state I can’t afford to make them mine. It is cheering enough to know there are people out there who can speak the plainest truths in the sweetest ways, and who do so at least some of the time,—cheering, too, to know that the world is wide enough for both them and me, and that the difference between us does not determine our chances at kindly, contented lives. On top of it all to know—though how could I know things like that? That word “know” is no good, meaning a lie. Let it stay.
This is all a long-winded way to begin a first letter, if you’ll allow the conceit (the lie) that it is a letter. Who to? And why? As I’m unfit to answer those far more interesting questions I’ll stick to the more frightening one, who am I?
I am a man on a creaky stool and just now thinking of oiling it. This morning I was up at six and in my usual way felt an urge to spring into thought or action,—in my usual way made the less gratifying choice, thought. I think on my feet, roughly a thought to ten strides, to the rankling of our cat June. Sour June. Between his meals he is happiest when everyone around him is settled and he can half-doze knowing (“knowing!”) that there is nothing to be taken care of, that the only moving thing on earth is a starling outside. It’s a familiar enough feeling to anyone, but Barber—did I call the cat Barber?—takes it to an unhealthy extreme. I hope he won’t regret it someday. Though of course I set out to say something about myself, not Winfred; and not only is Tewly not me, I don’t have a cat. What I do have is a fondness for names which I only rarely feel for my own. Mine’s Mitchell.
Letters of lies, I know (“I know!”), are not always the most welcome kind. Rest assured that some lies in these letters will inevitably miss the mark. I am indeed Mitchell—as near as I can make out—and I have no choice but to leave some trace of myself in everything I do. It is that or do nothing at all. If you’re still uneasy, I will at least leave you with this one unabashedly honest and heartfelt admonition, delivered to you and me alike. (As yet it has only been a thought with me.)
Should you find yourself in the northern hemisphere as I now am and in similar climes, then for the sake of all that’s good in the world don’t wait till the season’s out to get hold of the freshest strawberries you can find and some angel food cake—to serve the cake in shallow bowls and chop at least a handful of berries over each slice—to let the juices soak into the cake—to add nothing else—to wind up speechless.
Yours springingly,
Mitchell Cooper