Under normal circumstances, Simon Garfield’s chatty and informative excursion into the history of letter-writing would be a book to recommend. In recent years this author has produced eloquent and witty accounts of his fascination for maps and for typefaces: To the Letter makes a nice companion piece. Part of the book is a gentle lamentation about the end of letters; a death hastened, Garfield believes, by the digital age. But mostly he tells us things: when the pillar-box was invented and that it probably wasn’t the brainchild of Anthony Trollope, as has been posited (and against whom Garfield has an intriguing grudge); that Postman Pat’s theme song no longer has him delivering letters but parcels, since the Royal Mail decreed that the harmless puppet was inconsistent with the image they wish to promote. And we learn that, in the heyday of the British seaside holiday between 1902 and 1914, up to 800 million postcards were sent every year. Romans sent each other socks.
All of which makes this a very suitable Christmas present. Or would have, if its publisher hadn’t seen fit to bring out another book, Letters of Note. This seems something of an own goal on the publisher’s part, since no book concerning letters can hope to compete with this stupendously wonderful anthology. Letters of Note is quite literally the most enjoyable volume it is possible to imagine. Every page is a marvel.
To begin with, almost all the examples Usher has selected are reproduced in facsimile. Seeing the actual letters as physical objects shouldn’t make all that much difference to the pleasure of reading them, but somehow it does: the idiosyncrasy of the hand, the nostalgia of the telegram, even the yellowing typewritten page have a breathtaking pathos and immediacy.
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