The morning after.

I've been devouring (or, I could say re-devouring) the letters of Martha Gellhorn, a/k/a Mrs. Ernest Hemingway III; I'm absolutely crazy about her. Her writing is candid and sharp and admirably self-deprecating, and I wish she were still alive so I could write her letters half as good as the ones in this book. I know loads of people -- myself included -- who lament the death of letters. Reading Gellhorn's, I'm reminded of a time in which I journaled and wrote little notes to my family and friends. I was too young then to practice the sort of discourse Gellhorn was clearly born for, but now...well, now is different. The only thing stopping me is my lack of ability. Or, is it my lack of time?

These are the same excuses I use for not cooking a certain meal or entertaining certain groups of friends. Like conversation and letter writing, dining (both in and out) is an art, and it's one I strive to practice well. These all are traditions that nurture familial bonds, friendships and romances. They inspire conversation and ideas. They nourish both literally and figuratively. I believe all this, but I believe this, too: "... I think parties are really the last refuge of the empty and shrivelled brain, and are more destructive to the body than cocaine and more destructive to the spirit than jail." Martha Gellhorn wrote that to Alexander Woollcott in 1942, the morning after. I take from it this: our time is precious, let us use it wisely.