In praise of quiet ruminations
This post is part of The Quiet Lane series.
I know nothing of these people trapped in glass and yellowing. There's no hastily scribbled year to provide clues, no names. Just suits and dresses out of time, ink fading like tears, and glowing smiles lost to eternity.
A few weeks ago Jacob came home and asked about old letters and books we'd brought back after emptying my mom's house. He's pursuing a degree in history so this is all newly relevant. We dug through the basement, found the books... but not the letters. I knew they were stashed somewhere and, sure enough, found them a few days later. They were sitting at the bottom of another box, beneath a huge stack of pictures in dire need of order, in a white envelope simply marked papiers de la tante Loulou. Her I knew: Louise Prévost, my grandmother's aunt. She'd passed away in 1975 and my dad had been the executor of her will—which likely explains how the envelope ended up mixed in with baby pics and family trips to the Outer Banks.
There are two main batches of letters: the first date back to the late 1800s, and are addressed to L'Honorable A. J. Duchesnay, a great-great something who'd been named senator by that time (1). The second batch are letters to my great-uncle, the poet De Saint-Denys Garneau. Some are from his cousin Anne Hébert (the future writer), and a friend named Claude—whom I suspect to be Claude Hurtubise (2). These are from the mid to late 1930s. Just before the war. (3)
Despite their age, and less than optimal archival conditions, all of the letters are surprisingly well preserved. Which is actually unsettling: the words come alive as if uttered moments ago. You hear laughter, surprise, the reactions to previous (lost) letters are tangible, as urgent as the latest text message on your phone. The distance is gone, the decades obliterated, unimportant. This is banter between friends, real, unfiltered voices, pulled from the fog and darkness of time. Radiant and full of sun.
It's only paper, and yet they live in glorious fury.
I thought of these when I read Robert Breen's post Why Blogs Matter. This is a love letter to writing and sharing, soundlessly and without fanfare. Away from the glare of platforms and likes, without ulterior motives, free of the tyranny of algorithms. Writing to understand, to release—to reach out, possibly.
When I saw my name listed halfway through the article I was both humbled and slightly shocked. But the feeling's entirely mutual, and Robert is a perfect example of these connections borne of wires and electrons that soon become flesh. Like my Kage buddies. Like so many of you here, over the years.
This blog is the through-line from which a large portion of my life has unfolded. Friendships and opportunities that never would've materialized otherwise. A space of my own
Like paper
Brittle but stubborn
Quiet
Resolute
And fragile.
1: The one who fought in the Battle of Chateauguay (I name drop and link all of them in Freund ).
2: His best friend, who would later become an important Canadian publisher (the first to publish Anne Hébert's work, among many other authors).
3: As shown in the third picture, the last letter from Anne Hébert was sent from Florida (while vacationing with her family). It's dated March 11, 1939—we’re six months away from the invasion of Poland, and the beginning of WW2.
