“A good painter has two chief objects to paint — man and the intention of his soul; the former is easy, the latter hard, because he has to represent it by the attitudes and movements of the limbs.”
Leonardo da Vinci (via porziuncola)
“I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness… But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights… always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again…”
Sullivan Ballou to his wife, Sarah, July 14, 1861.
He was killed one week later in the first Battle of Bull Run.
As you may know (or maybe not, unless you’re American), this spring marked the 150th anniversary of the beginning of the American Civil War, a four-year conflict that killed over half a million people, brought about the end of slavery in the U.S., and created a cultural divide between North and South that lingers (albeit mostly benignly) to this day.
I’ve been rewatching Ken Burns’s fabulous documentary today, and this letter brought tears to my eyes. It’s the kind of love letter so heart-wrenching that it could only be real. It also immediately reminded me of the many letters of Confederate soldiers I scanned while working for the digitization unit at UVA’s library. We had a lot of literary gems come through that office, but I don’t think I ever saw anything more moving than those letters — many of them written by young men who, like Sullivan Ballou, would never see their loved ones again.
I would like to think that America has learned her lesson well, but with all the fevered rhetoric flying around these days — and particularly given the anniversary — maybe it’s worth taking a step back and remembering where the road of unflinching refusal to compromise eventually leads.
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.”
Oscar Wilde (via thenocturnals)
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at the type writer and bleed.”
Ernest Hemmingway (via faeriefables)
