Bela

My sweet Valeria,

I have never met a vampire personally, but I don't know what might happen tomorrow.

Kisses,

Bela Lugosi

Macbeth

Dear Valeria,

Bring me no more reports; let them fly all:
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounc'd me thus,—
"Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman
Shall e'er have power upon thee."—Then fly, false thanes,
And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.

Glory to ye,

Mac Bethad mac Findlaích, called Rí Deircc, King of Scotland

Bertolt

Dear Valeria,

Art is not a mirror held up to reality
but a hammer with which to shape it.

All the best,

Bertolt Brecht

Radegonde

Dear Valeria,

Oh, sad state of war, malevolent destiny
That fells proud kingdoms in a sudden slide!
The rooves that stood so long in happiness are broken
To lie fallen beneath the vast charred ruin.
The palace courts, where art once flouished
Are vaulted now with sad, glowing ashes.
Towers artfully gilded, then shone golden-red,
Now drifting ashes blur the glitter to pallor.

Yours,

Radegonde de Poitiers

William

Valeria,

I must Create a System, or be enslav'd by another Man's. I will not Reason & Compare; my business is to Create.

William Blake

Edith

Dear Valeria,

When Lily woke on the morning after her translation to the Emporium Hotel, her first feeling was one of purely physical satisfaction. The force of contrast gave an added keenness to the luxury of lying once more in a soft-pillowed bed, and looking across a spacious sunlit room at a breakfast-table set invitingly near the fire. Analysis and introspection might come later; but for the moment she was not even troubled by the excesses of the upholstery or the restless convolutions of the furniture. The sense of being once more lapped and folded in ease, as in some dense mild medium impenetrable to discomfort, effectually stilled the faintest note of criticism.

When, the afternoon before, she had presented herself to the lady to whom Carry Fisher had directed her, she had been conscious of entering a new world. Carry's vague presentment of Mrs. Norma Hatch (whose reversion to her Christian name was explained as the result of her latest divorce), left her

Yours,

Edith Wharton

Carlo

Cara Valeria,

love the toys you make,

Carlo Rambaldi

Irene

Dear Valeria,

Irene Sarantapechaina, of Athens, Empress of Byzantium

Shirley

Dear Valeria,

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

yours,

Shirley Jackson

Rabindranath

Dear Valeria,

Our passions and desires are unruly, but our character subdues these elements into a harmonious whole. Does something similar to this happen in the physical world? Are the elements rebellious, dynamic with individual impulse? And is there a principle in the physical world which dominates them and puts them into an orderly organization?

Yours,

Rabindranath Tagore

Louis

Estimée Valéria,

Avec respet et honeur,

Louis III, Roi des Francs

Ernestine

Valeria, my dear sister

But it will be said that the husband provides for the wife, or in other words, he feeds, clothes and shelters her! I wish I had the power to make every one before me fully realize the degradation contained in that idea.

All my best wishes,

Ernestine Rose

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