Ingmar

Dear Valeria,

Sincerely,

Ernst Ingmar Bergman

Cyrano

My dear Valeria,

I will prove that there are infinite worlds in an infinite world. Imagine the universe as a great animal, and the stars as worlds like other animals inside it. These stars serve in turn as worlds for other organisms, such as ourselves, horses and elephants. We in our turn are worlds for even smaller organisms such as cankers, lice, worms and mites. And they are earths for other, imperceptible beings.
Just as we appear to be a huge world to these little organisms, perhaps our flesh, blood and bodily fluids are nothing more than a connected tissue of little animals that move and cause us to move. Even as they let themselves be led blindly by our will, which serves them as a vehicle, they animate us and combine to produce this action we call life.

sincerely,

Cyrano de Bergerac

Winsor

My little Vale,

Sweet dreams,

Winsor McCay

Samuel

Dear Valeria,

From my early reading of Faery Tales, & Genii — my mind had been habituated to the Vast — & I never regarded my senses in any way as the criteria of my belief. I regulated all my creeds by my conceptions not by my sight — even at that age. Should children be permitted to read Romances, & Relations of Giants & Magicians, & Genii? — I know all that has been said against it; but I have formed my faith in the affirmative. — I know no other way of giving the mind a love of "the Great," & "the Whole." — Those who have been led by the same truths step by step thro' the constant testimony of their senses, seem to me to want a sense which I possess — They contemplate nothing but parts — and are parts are necessarily little — and the Universe to them is but a mass of little things.

All the best,

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Ahmad

Dear Valeria,

They smell your mouth 
To find out if you have told someone: I love you! 
They smell your heart!

Such a strange time it is, my dear; 
And they punish Love 
At thoroughfares 
By flogging. 
We must hide our 
Love in dark closets. 
In this crooked dead end of a bitter cold 
They keep their fire alive 
By burning our songs and poems; 
Do not place your life in peril by your thoughts! 

Such a strange time it is, my dear! 

Warmest Regards.

Ahmad Shamloo

David

Dear Valeria,

There will never be talking pictures.

Sincerely,

D.W. Griffith

Errico

Cara Valeria,

By anarchist spirit I mean that deeply human sentiment, which aims at the good of all, freedom and justice for all, solidarity and love among the people; which is not an exclusive characteristic only of self-declared anarchists, but inspires all people who have a generous heart and an open mind.

yours,

Errico Malatesta

Arshile

Dear Valeria,

I don’t like that word 'finish'. When something is finished, that means it’s dead, doesn’t it? I believe in everlastingness. I never finish a painting – I just stop working on it for a while. I like painting because it’s something I never come to the end of. Sometimes I paint a picture, then I paint it all out. Sometimes I’m working on fifteen or twenty pictures at the same time. I do that because I want to – because I like to change my mind so often. The thing to do is always to keep starting to paint, never finishing painting.

Best regards,

Arshile Gorsky

Paul

Dear Valeria,

Serious-minded people have few ideas. People with ideas are never serious.

Paul Valéry

Francesco

Carissima Valeria,

Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe
cercondi et movi, et se’ mossa da loro,
soavemente, et spargi quel dolce oro,
et poi ’l raccogli, e ’n bei nodi il rincrespe,

tu stai nelli occhi ond’amorose vespe
mi pungon sí, che ’nfin qua il sento et ploro,
et vacillando cerco il mio thesoro,
come animal che spesso adombre e ’ncespe:

ch’or me ’l par ritrovar, et or m’accorgo
ch’i’ ne son lunge, or mi sollievo or caggio,
ch’or quel ch’i’ bramo, or quel ch’è vero scorgo.

Aër felice, col bel vivo raggio
rimanti; et tu corrente et chiaro gorgo,
ché non poss’io cangiar teco vïaggio?

Con affetto,

Francesco Petrarca

Michelangelo

Diletta Valeria,

Tuo affezionato,

Michelangelo Merisi detto il Caravaggio

Charlotte

Ma chère Valéria,

J’ai vengé bien d’innocentes victimes, j’ai prévenu bien d’autres désastres. Le peuple, un jour désabusé, se réjouira d’être délivré d’un tyran. Un tel attentat ne permet nulle défense, c’est pour la forme. Adieu, je vous prie de vous réjouir de mon sort, la cause en est belle. N’oubliez pas ce vers de Corneille :

Le Crime fait la honte, et non pas l’échafaud!

Au revoir.

Marie Charlotte Corday

Vyacheslav

Dear Valeria,

Dionysus walks his vineyard, his beloved;
Two women in dark clothing - two vintagers - follow him.
Dionysus tells the two mournful guards - The vintagers:
"Take your sharp knife, my vintners, Grief and Torment;
Harvest, Grief and Torment, my beloved grapes!
Gather the blood of scarlet bunches, the tears of my golden clusters -
Take the victim of bliss to the whetstone of grief,
The purple of suffering to the whetstone of bliss;
Pour the fervent liquid of scarlet delights into my ardent Grail!

Yours,

Vyacheslav Ivanovich Ivanov

Rosalia

Dear Valeria,

Goose pimples spread
Over my entire body
And the hairs on my crown
Gradually bristled;
Drops of sweat trickled
Steadily down my bosom
And I quivered as quivers
The water when the wind blows
Upon the bowl of the new fountain
Which is always overflowing.
That little owl abiding there
As if it were the very devil
Stared hard at me
With its scavenging eyes
(I surmised these preyed on me
From the moment I spied them afar).
They seemed born of fire to me
And I suppose that they burned me;
I suppose they were crimson firebrands
From hells' bonfire
Which entered through my pupils
And went straight to the heart.
In it was remorse
Of illicit sweet loves...
Ah, whoever has such loves
Can not find good repose!

Kindest regards,

Rosalía De Castro

Phyllis

Dear Valeria,

You don't go after poetry, you take what comes. Maybe the gods do it through me but I certainly do a hell of a lot of the work.

...but on the other hand...

Popular literature had been creeping into poetry, fantasy, children's rhymes, song lyrics, and eventually it all got absorbed into my science fiction, and by the end of the seventies (just about the time the great outburst of interest in poetry began to shrink) I stopped being a productive poet simply from lack of poem-shaped ideas. Now my aliens write poems, and I produce them very occasionally. I miss them, but if I tried to force them I'd produce only empty stuff.

Yours sincerely,

Phyllis Gotlieb

Marie

Dear Valeria,

When I read these writings by men, I suspect that they see more clearly the anatomy of their beards than they see the anatomy of their reasons. These tracts of contempt written by these doctors in moustaches are in fact quite handy to brush up the luster of their reputation in public opinion, since to gain esteem from the masses—this beast at several heads— nothing is easier than to mock so and so and to compare them to a poor crazy woman.

Salutations et solidarité,

Maria Le Jars de Gournay

Gertrude

Dear Valeria,

Have I ever told you what the river is like on a hot summer night? At dusk the mist hangs in long white bands over the water; the twilight fades and the lights of the town shine out on either bank, with the river, dark and smooth and full of mysterious reflections, like a road of triumph through the midst.

love from Baghdad,

Gertrude Bell

Giuseppe

Cara Valeria,

con affetto,

Giuseppe Arcimboldo

Ruth

Dear Valeria,

best wishes,

Ruth Krauss

PS: the drawing is by my dear friend Maurice Sendak

Anastasius

Greetings, Valeria,

Richest regards,

Flavius Anastasius Augustus, said Dicorus

Percy

Valeria, my darling

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Yours sincerely,

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Mia

Yo! Valeria,

You lose your head on your chosen trip
The sight of your blood will lose your spit
And a broken heart will turn to sin but when
the wound is open you’re all the fuckin’ same
Cut my skin it makes me human
Scorn your mind well just feel the blow
Cause when you’re lookin at pain you’re lookin at truth
Nothin’ like pain to keep us all the same
Cut my skin, it makes me human
Scorn your mind just feel the pain
’cause it’s what makes us human
It keeps us all the same

Don't stop breathing, sister,

Mia Zapata

Guy

Dear Valeria,

I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space.

Best,

Guy the Maupassant

Victor

Chère Valérie,

Allez, allez, mes chers amis
Faites retentir l’air de vos chants d’allégresse !
Semez aux pieds de la déesse
Les roses et les lys !
Courez en foule vers son temple ! courez !
Moi, Dieu merci !
Je suis ici,
Trop mollement couché pour suivre votre exemple !

A toujours,

Victor Massé

Marie

Dear Valeria,

Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.

Best,

Marie Curie

Taoyateduta

Listen Valeria,

Taoyateduta is not a coward, and he is not a fool! When did he run away from his enemies? When did he leave his braves behind him on the warpath and turn back to his tepee? When he ran away from your enemies, he walked behind on your trail with his face to the Ojibways and covered your backs as a she-bear covers her cubs!

Is Taoyateduta without scalps? Look at his war feathers! Behold the scalp locks of your enemies hanging there on his lodgepoles! Do they call him a coward? Taoyateduta is not a coward, and he is not a fool.

Braves, you are like little children: you know not what you are doing. You are full of the white man's devil water. You are like dogs in the Hot Moon when they run mad and snap at their own shadows. We are only little herds of buffalo left scattered; the great herds that once covered the prairies are no more.

See! — the white men are like the locusts when they fly so thick that the whole sky is a snowstorm. You may kill one — two — ten; yes, as many as the leaves in the forest yonder, and their brothers will not miss them. Kill one — two — ten, and ten times ten will come to kill you. Count your fingers all day long and white men with guns in their hands will come faster than you can count.

Yes; they fight among themselves — aways off. Do you hear the thunder of their big guns? No; it would take you two moons to run down to where they are fighting, and all the way your path would be among white soldiers as thick as tamaracks in the swamps of the Ojibways. Yes; they fight among themselves, but if you strike at them they will all turn on you and devour you and your women and little children just as the locusts in their time fall on the trees and devour all the leaves in one day.

You are fools. You cannot see the face of your chief; your eyes are full of smoke. You cannot hear his voice; your ears are full of roaring waters. Braves, you are little children — you are fools. You will die like the rabbits when the hungry wolves hunt them in the Hard Moon.

Taoyateduta is not a coward; he will die with you.

Yours,

Taoyateduta, "Little Crow" of the Mdewakanton Dakota Sioux

Jean-Jaques

Dear Valeria,

Our passions are the chief means of self-preservation; to try to destroy them is therefore as absurd as it is useless.

Yours,

Jean-Jaques Rousseau

Mikhail

Zdravstvoujte, Comrade Valeria,

I can feel free only in the presence of and in relationship with other humans. In the presence of an inferior species of animal I am neither free nor a man, because this animal is incapable of conceiving and consequently recognizing my humanity. I am not myself free or human until or unless I recognize the freedom and humanity of all my fellowmen. Only in respecting their human character do I respect my own. I am truly free only when all human beings, men and women, are equally free. The freedom of other men, far from negating or limiting my freedom, is, on the contrary, its necessary premise and confirmation.

С уважением,

Mikhail Bakunin