Latest news with #LettersofNote
Indian Express
16-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Indian Express
‘Things not to worry about': F Scott Fitzgerald's timeless advice to his 11-year-old daughter
'Dear Pie': So begins one of the most profound letters a father ever wrote to a daughter. In the summer of 1933, The Great Gatsby author F Scott Fitzgerald, one of the most iconic voices of the Jazz Age, penned a heartfelt letter to his 11-year-old daughter Scottie who was away at camp. Tucked within it was a short but timeless list of life advice, divided into three categories: things to worry about, things not to worry about, and things to think about. Fitzgerald's tone was while instructive, remained playful. 'I feel very strongly about you doing duty,' he opens, before requesting 'a little more documentation' about her reading in French. But he quickly detours into the philosophical: 'I never believe much in happiness. I never believe in misery either.' These, he writes, are stage tricks. Real life, he insists, is about doing one's duty. Virtue earns its rewards. Failure to meet one's responsibilities brings quiet consequences, 'doubly costly.' Then, with an abrupt touch of absurdity, he invokes 'the White Cat' whom he threatens to spank six times 'for every time you are impertinent.' It's the kind of parental joke that dances between imagined threat and warm reassurance. He thinks of her, he says, 'and always pleasantly.' But it's the list that follows—an outline of things to worry about, things not to worry about, and things to think about that turns this letter into something that much like his oeuvre continues to resonate to this day. 📌 Worry about courage. 📌 Worry about cleanliness. 📌 Worry about efficiency. 📌 Worry about horsemanship… Fitzgerald urges his daughter to be brave, to take care of herself, to be useful, and, curiously, to ride well. The list begins with character and discipline. Even 'horsemanship' may be less about literal riding than about the mastery of skill, control, and poise. A letter of advice from F. Scott Fitzgerald to his 11-year-old daughter: — Letters of Note (@LettersOfNote) September 18, 2021 📌Don't worry about popular opinion. 📌Don't worry about dolls. 📌Don't worry about the past. 📌Don't worry about the future. 📌 Don't worry about growing up. 📌Don't worry about anybody getting ahead of you. 📌Don't worry about triumph. 📌Don't worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault. 📌Don't worry about mosquitoes. 📌Don't worry about flies. 📌Don't worry about insects in general. 📌Don't worry about parents. 📌Don't worry about boys. 📌Don't worry about disappointments. 📌Don't worry about pleasures. 📌 Don't worry about satisfactions. Here, Fitzgerald strips away the anxieties of childhood and adulthood. He dismisses the noise of opinion, the tyranny of comparison, the fear of failure, even the allure of success. His advice to his daughter, and by extension to us, is freeing: most of what we obsess over is not worth the worry. 📌What am I really aiming at? How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to: (a) Scholarship (b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them? (c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it? In this final section, Fitzgerald turns inward, toward the questions of purpose and self-development. He doesn't ask his daughter to strive for perfection, but to think carefully about her direction. Is she growing intellectually, socially, physically? The questions are open-ended, reflective, and enduring. This letter, written in a quiet Maryland home during the Great Depression, continues to speak in a world louder and more distracted than Fitzgerald could have imagined. It's not a lecture, but something closer to a gift: a father's distilled hopes, his wisdom, and his unspoken love. As Father's Day reminds us of the many ways fathers try to reach their children, few examples are as enduring as this. 'With dearest love,' he signs off. And nearly a century later, it still feels freshly written.
Irish Times
23-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Róisín Ingle: I have a list in my head of unwritten letters. Now I will write them
George Bernard Shaw wrote a lot of letters in his lifetime. Many of them were short, grumpy notes turning down invitations for social events or speaking gigs or gala dinners. My favourite narky 'no thank you' letter of his, and there are lots to choose from, was written after the Pygmalion writer was invited to address a branch of the Labour Party in Britain. 'It would be easier and pleasanter to drown myself,' was his one sentence reply in that 1922 letter. If we're honest, many of us would like to respond this way to certain invitations but would never have the nerve. Shaun Usher of Letters of Note has done a great service with his books and online curation of interesting letters through the centuries. This is where I came across George Bernard Shaw's gloriously truculent ripostes, along with a 1953 letter from author Shirley Jackson in response to a reader who didn't enjoy her work: 'Dear Mrs White, If you don't like my peaches, don't shake my tree, Sincerely Shirley Jackson.' I'm stealing that next time I get hate mail. Usher's contribution to the literary world is increasingly valuable given that the art of letter writing has mostly gone the way of the Dodo, the 46a and refreshments on most Irish trains. This is old news, of course. People have been going on about the lost art of letter writing for years. Still, the crisis, if that's not too strong a word, does seem to be escalating. READ MORE In Denmark last month, the postal service declared it will deliver its last letter at the end of this year. Since 2000 the number of letters sent in that country has declined by more than 90 per cent. They are eliminating 1,500 jobs and 1,500 of their bright red post boxes, citing the increased digitisation of life in Denmark, where people routinely have driving licences and even passports on their phones. At home, An Post reported the volume of letters has fallen by 8 per cent in the last year, and by 50 per cent in the past decade. A massive 93 per cent of those letters are generated by business or Government bodies. Only a surprising and sad-sounding seven per cent are personal cards and letters. I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter. I know I wrote a letter to George Michael in the 1980s. He never replied. I wrote one to Paul Young asking if I could do harmonies on one of this songs. Never heard back from him either. I wrote a couple of letters to Jim'll Fix It and, for obvious reasons, I'm relieved nobody there ever got back to me. Aged 21, I wrote a five-page letter to a boyfriend, worried he was about to dump me. After I sent it to him, he arranged to meet me in a cafe. The letter revealed we wanted different things and made it easier for him to end things, he said. It wasn't me it was him, in other words. But really it was me and my ardent, lovesick letter which had scared the Bejaysus out of him. 'I think you want a husband,' he said presciently. I got married a couple of years later, which is another story. I think about writing letters a lot. There is a list in my head of people I want to send them to, some I know personally and others I don't, but that's where they stay, ink never darkening paper. These are people I want to thank, or commiserate with, or support or compliment or just correspond with in the old-fashioned way. I send texts, but the letters in my head remain unwritten. It's a shame because I love receiving post of any kind. One of the perks of my job is being sent books, often before they are published. But an even bigger bonus is that readers occasionally get in touch. Some of them even write letters. [ I got a D in pass maths in the Leaving Cert but I addressed the Society of Actuaries in Ireland dinner Opens in new window ] My postbox in work had been empty for a couple of weeks. I felt a little pang every time I walked past the pigeonhole. Complete tumbleweed. The other day I walked past my empty cubbyhole again. The emptiness seemed wrong somehow and so I did a bit of rooting around. My post had been put in someone else's pigeonhole by mistake. There was a lovely big pile with my name on it in someone else's mailbox. Books yes, but mostly handwritten letters from readers. I went to a cafe and spent a gorgeous half-hour opening the envelopes, smoothing out the paper and reading the contents. Some made me laugh. Some made me cry. Thanks to all of you. I've decided I am going to write one letter a week. I can do it. (I make the bed every single day now, an activity which for years felt beyond me.) I've even ordered a new writing set from an Irish company called PawPear. Páipéar, get it? Their website, has an abundance of beautifully designed boxes of paper, envelopes, pens and cards. Kim Whyte, the woman behind PawPear, describes letter writing as 'a quiet rebellion against the send button'. Emails and texts disappear into the ether but letters are folded away in boxes, like the one I have in my bedroom filled with messages from readers and friends who have been so generous with their words, especially in the last couple of years. My weekly missives might not be of George Bernard Shaw or Shirley Jackson quality but they'll be old-school, quietly rebellious letters all the same. I hope the recipients like my peaches.
