Letter #4

Dear Flannery,

I suppose you could call these posthumous fan letters. And yet I’m not one to write fan letters, although I confess I did write a brief note to Madeleine L’Engle after I read A Circle of Quiet many years ago, and one to Ann Lamott after I read Bird by Bird. Madeleine’s book started me on understanding my existence (an ongoing quest), and Ann’s writing was just so outrageously fresh and daring that I had to let her know I admired it (even though secretly I didn’t fully appreciate her overuse of certain four-letter words). Generally, I am not the fan type. Even though there are many human efforts I think are very fine, as life goes on I get more cautious about idolizing my fellow human beings. You make it abundantly clear that you wouldn’t want to be idolized. You’d be the first to say that none of us are very wise or pure or good, as Voltaire pointed out. So yes, a good man is hard to find. And no, it’s not fan letters I wish to write.

As I wrote in my last letter, I have read everything I know of written by you that has been published, while you lived and after. Now I am methodically reading and rereading everything again along with an added dimension or two. Not only do I trust that with further study any confusion will lessen and any understanding increase (it must, mustn’t it?), but this time I am going to be writing to you what I think about it all. What I want is someone with whom I can discuss what to me are matters of life and death to my heart's content.

Here is a hypothetical question. If you could have a new friend, and you could choose this friend from all the human beings in the world, alive or dead, ancient or modern, young or old, famous or infamous, possessing whatever degree of human intelligence, knowledge, or talent that appealed to you, whom would you choose? From what I've read, I’m guessing you’d choose St. Thomas Aquinas (whom I intend to attempt to study; I bought a fat book of his introductory works). As for me, I have cast about the whole wide timeless world for the new friend I would choose, and I am choosing you.

This is no small thing. You are a very hard person to keep up with. I think of your depth of conviction and your unswerving confidence in the direction of your work. And the books you read -- I'll have to read them all. Yes, I’m sure I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. But oh, to be able to chew even a bit of it.

C. S. Lewis wrote, “Friendship must be about something, even if it were only an enthusiasm for dominoes or white mice . . . . A Man who agrees with us that some question, little regarded by others, is of great importance can be our Friend,” and I am taking him at his word.

It appears that you valued your friends, dead or living, new and old, a great deal. Remember when you first wrote to your new friend, Elizabeth Hester, referred to as “A” in The Habit of Being?

I am very pleased to have your letter. Perhaps it is even more startling to me to find someone who recognizes my work for what I try to make it than it is for you to find a God-conscious writer near at hand . The distance is 87 miles but I feel the spiritual distance is shorter . . . . You were very kind to me and the measure of my appreciation must be to ask you to write me again. I would like to know who this is who understands my stories.

I was very glad when I read this. I had wondered if you had friends who truly understood your stories, aside from the remarkable writing, all the publishment and praise of men, and an admiring, albeit benighted, public. I imagine “A” was very smart— you continued to correspond for nine years, until you passed on, even though she converted to and then unconverted from your church— but your reaction to her letter led me to hope that you wouldn’t have minded one from me. To some significant and everincreasing degree, I do hope I understand your stories.

In mortality you liked to write letters. So do I. Hence, this is how our friendship will look. I will write you letters and since you are dead you won’t write back. But it will be better than nothing. And so I sign this letter—

Both posthumously and presumptuously,

A Friend