Letter from the Gulag VI

To Luke

To Luke—

I think of your friendship and the honesty by which you move and respond; I’ve noticed this innocent goodness in you, full of conscience, when we retracted a story because of “ethics,” or many other such times where you came to me with anxiety about some other matters of love or work, or the arbitrary vicissitudes of daily life. Mostly, I think you have been raised in kindness and more understanding than you credit yourself with (I say this because nowhere in your work do I find some sagacious self-aggrandizement or slight; all that you say presupposes equality of mind).

And there is a selfish thankfulness that I feel that you have been more of a man than most others I had known for far longer and more intimately, and therefore, more of a friend, whose kindness does not give way to inauthenticity as is often the case with those who quietly mistake their sparing reservation for morality. Because of this, should you one day leave me, you’ll be in my favor for all that you’ve supplied—your honor that is worth more than the lot combined. Let no one tear you down, but in all things remember who you are.

I look at my life and see a vast motherboard with connectivity issues, so that not only is nothing being controlled, but there is no projection, as a body attached to a head with no dreams. Yet you remind me that there is a Thoreauvian simplicity that makes life enjoyable even still: the sound of a club striking past shards of grass; a respite, or some momentary eternity in a busy day where we are reposed with a cigar and a beer; a midnight session of chess; broiling and waning discussions that set our sights higher than ourselves and that tell us maybe we can be important too. Above all these, friendship.

As you know, I am loyal beyond reason. Loyal to my obstinacies (an inherent quality of obstinance is loyalty), to my virtues, and to my vices; but above all, to people that call me by my name. As such, I find that I struggle against the river of Lethe, not by my accord, but by the unconscious processes of this cerebral machine; and logically, along with it, the anxieties of inexorable regret. And this is why I often implore you to action, to assert yourself in a precarious world of half-truths and cunning, lest you too should regret inaction or fall prey to selfish manipulations that appear otherwise innocuous.

Thus, stand guard against the deceit of worldly passions, they’ll promise you much and guarantee to confiscate more—worst of all, the theft cannot be counted as theft because of your consent. And then who among you will search for your virtues, or recall what can be recovered from their heart? On whom can you depend? So lest you too, like careless drinkers of the Styx, be carried off by Sturm und Drang, or some infernal darkness, no sin against me could prevent my being close ahead of you ready to pull you out; and if by some intercession I am unable—well, better me too than you alone. No one deserves to be alone.

Love is free. But all things else come with a debt.

Be well.

Earnestly,

P.S. Remember Trix yogurt? I just had a phantom smell of it. It was nice. I’m terribly hungry.