Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1932
45 Washington Mews, Greenwich Village, New York, NY 10003

My Dearest Laura,

As autumn’s first chill whispers through the maple trees outside my window, I find myself transported to that golden afternoon last September when we walked amongst the turning leaves in your grandmother’s garden. Do you remember how the late sunlight caught the amber in your hair, transforming you into something ethereal—a vision that has haunted my dreams these many weeks hence? Even now, as I write by lamplight with the distant sounds of the city settling into evening, I can almost smell the chrysanthemums that bordered your cottage path, their earthy sweetness forever entwined with the memory of your laughter.

How curious it is that memory should prove such a faithful companion in these days of separation. This morning, whilst reviewing proofs for next week’s edition, I discovered myself quite lost in contemplation of our correspondence—every letter you’ve penned has become a treasured manuscript in the library of my heart. Your Tuesday missives arrive with the reliability of sunrise, and I confess I have taken to haunting the lobby of my building like some lovesick schoolboy, waiting for old Connors to sort the morning post. The anticipation has become as much a part of my routine as my morning coffee, and infinitely more vital to my well-being.

There is something profoundly moving about the ritual of our written courtship, darling. In an age when everything seems to rush towards an uncertain future—when headlines scream of bank failures and breadlines, when the very foundations of our society appear to shift beneath our feet—our letters have become an anchor of constancy. Each carefully chosen word you send bridges not merely the three hundred miles between Manhattan and Manchester, but the chasm of uncertainty that threatens to engulf us all. In your pages, I find refuge from the storm.

Yesterday evening, I attended a gathering at the Algonquin where the conversation turned, as it inevitably does these days, to the nation’s troubles. Whilst my colleagues spoke with grim determination about the newspaper’s duty to chronicle society’s struggles, I found myself thinking of your unwavering optimism, your remarkable ability to find light in the darkest corners. You wrote to me of Mrs. Crandall, the elderly widow who comes to your library each day not for books, but for the warmth of human connection, and how you’ve made it your mission to recommend stories that will kindle hope in her weary soul. Such compassion, such intuitive understanding of what people truly need—these are the qualities that first drew me to you, and they shine ever brighter with each passing day.

I am haunted by the sweetness of our brief courtship, those stolen moments when duty brought me to New Hampshire for that series on rural libraries. How providential it seems now that The New Republic should have assigned me that particular story, though I suspect fate had a hand in guiding my editor’s decision. That first afternoon in your domain—for the Manchester Carnegie Library is indeed your kingdom—I watched you navigate between the stacks with the grace of a dancer, your enthusiasm infectious as you spoke of your plans to expand the children’s section. You transformed what I expected to be a perfunctory interview into something magical, your curiosity about my work matched only by your insights into the power of literature to heal wounded souls.

Do you remember our conversation about Keats that afternoon? How you spoke of negative capability with such passion, arguing that uncertainty and mystery were not obstacles to understanding, but rather doorways to deeper truth? In these uncertain times, I find myself returning to that discussion, finding comfort in the notion that not all questions require immediate answers, that some mysteries are meant to be lived rather than solved. Our love, I think, falls into this category—something too profound for easy definition, yet as real and sustaining as breath itself.

The future spreads before us like an unwritten manuscript, its pages blank with possibility. I dream of the day when I might abandon these rented rooms for something more permanent—perhaps a small house with a garden where you might plant roses, a study where we could share our evening reading, a kitchen table where we might linger over breakfast whilst discussing the morning’s news. I envision quiet Sunday afternoons when your head might rest upon my shoulder as we read together, your soft breathing a counterpoint to the rustling of turned pages.

There are practical matters to consider, of course. My position at The New Republic grows more secure with each issue, and I have been saving diligently towards our future. The magazines speak cautiously of economic recovery, and whilst I place little faith in such predictions, I find myself cautiously optimistic about our prospects. Perhaps by spring—that season of renewal and hope—we might begin to make more concrete plans. The thought of you in my arms again, of no longer depending upon the postal service to convey my devotion, fills me with such anticipation that I can barely contain myself.

Until that blessed day arrives, I shall continue to pour my heart onto these pages, sending pieces of my soul northward with each letter. Know that you are cherished beyond measure, that your love sustains me through these grey October days, and that every sunrise brings us one day closer to the moment when distance shall no longer separate us.

With all my love and devotion,

Harry

P.S. I’ve enclosed a small poem I penned during yesterday’s editorial meeting, when thoughts of you quite overwhelmed my ability to concentrate on the morning’s headlines. The verses are poor substitutes for spoken words, but they carry all the affection that distance prevents me from expressing in person.

October 14th, 1932

Whilst colleagues debate tomorrow’s pressing news,
My thoughts drift northward to New Hampshire’s shore,
Where autumn leaves mirror the golden hues
Of letters that make distance matter no more.

In Manchester’s library, do you pause and think
Of one whose heart beats time with yours alone?
These headlines fade to naught, mere printer’s ink—
Your love’s the only story I call my own.

—H.G.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.