Edgar Allen Poe vs. The Baltimore Sanitation Department
A lover replies to Vincent Van Gogh
Biddy Baxter writes to a viewer
Agatha Christie’s jury duty notes
Gandhi writes to his dry cleaner
Bo Diddley writes to his publicist
Ivan Pavlov contacts his local pet store
A letter from George Orwell’s publishers
Harold Pinter moves into greeting cards
Beatrix Potter tries to get an overdraft extension
Marie Antoinette’s prison letter
Correspondence between Warhol Superstars
Björk writes to Goldie’s parents
Andrew Lloyd Webber’s notes after the first rehearsal of Jesus Christ Superstar
A sick note from Ernest Hemingway’s mother
April 2014
My friends.
I can’t quite remember why I decided to write a note purportedly from cult German film director Werner Herzog to his fictional cleaning lady. I know where I was: in the kitchen of my flat in Walthamstow, which I was eventually driven out of by an upstairs neighbour with an insatiable love of Speed Garage and lengthy Call of Duty sessions … but that’s another introduction entirely.
Being able to correctly identify the inspiration and mechanics involved in the moment of that letter’s construction would have come in handy when I had to write a book full of similar material (spoiler alert: It’s this book). But anyway, I couldn’t. Though the moment definitely happened, because I wrote the letter, had it rejected by someone, felt a bit sad, then wisely sent it to Sabotage Times, where it quickly ‘went viral’, as I believe the young people say. I had no idea people are as enamoured of Herzog as I am, but it seems the masses can’t get enough of that crazy Bavarian and his delightful antics.
What baffled me most was the volume of readers who thought it was actually written by next to it.
It seemed sensible to try again, so I went on to write ludicrous missives from other figures I have a healthy obsession with, including Mark E. Smith, Brian Eno, George Orwell, Neil Young and more Brian Eno (I love Brian Eno). Soon, I had unwittingly developed into, as writer Joel Morris put it, ‘the BBC4 version of Mike Yarwood’.
However, though a number of these collected letters have been seen before, circulating around the darker reaches of the internet, most are shiny and new. A few didn’t make the cut due to legal issues or for reasons of baffling obscurity. You can find some of these at lettersofnot.com, where you can also send your complaints and gift baskets.
A hearty thanks to everyone included in the book who decided not to sue me. You are good eggs. To the others – see you in court.
Dale Shaw
P.S. Full disclosure – I was listening to Ram by Paul McCartney as I wrote this.
Dr Heimlich’s note to a colleague
Howard,
I’ve had a great new idea for another manoeuvre. This one can be used to pick up women. Pop by the office and I’ll show you how it works.
Henry
Werner Herzog’s note to his cleaning lady
Rosalina. Woman.
You constantly revile me with your singular lack of vision. Be aware, there is an essential truth and beauty in all things. From the death throes of a speared gazelle to the damaged smile of a freeway homeless. But that does not mean that the invisibility of something implies its lack of being. Though simpleton babies foolishly believe the person before them vanishes when they cover their eyes during a hateful game of peek-a-boo, this is a fallacy. And so it is that the unseen dusty build up that accumulates behind the DVD shelves in the rumpus room exists also. This is unacceptable.
I will tell you this, Rosalina, not as a taunt or a threat but as an evocation of joy. The joy of nothingness, the joy of the real. I want you to be real in everything you do. If you cannot be real, then a semblance of reality must be maintained. A real semblance of the fake real, or ‘real’. I have conquered volcanoes and visited the bitter depths of the earth’s oceans. Nothing I have witnessed, from lava to crustacean, assailed me liked the caked debris haunting that small plastic soap hammock in the smaller of the bathrooms. Nausea is not a sufficient word. In this regard, you are not being real.
Now we must turn to the horrors of nature. I am afraid this is inevitable. Nature is not something to be coddled and accepted and held to your bosom like a wounded snake. Tell me, what was there before you were born? What do you remember? That is nature. Nature is a void. An emptiness. A vacuum. And speaking of vacuum, I am not sure you’re using the retractable nozzle correctly or applying the ‘full weft’ setting when attending to the lush carpets of the den. I found some dander there.
I have only listened to two songs in my entire life. One was an aria by Wagner that I played compulsively from the ages of 19 to 27 at least 60 times a day until the local townsfolk drove me from my dwelling using rudimentary pitchforks and blazing torches. The other was Dido. Both appalled me to the point of paralysis. Every quaver was like a brickbat against my soul. Music is futile and malicious. So please, if you require entertainment while organizing the recycling, refrain from the ‘pop radio’ I was affronted by recently. May I recommend the recitation of some sharp verse. Perhaps by Goethe. Or Schiller. Or Shel Silverstein at a push.
The situation regarding spoons remains unchanged. If I see one, I will kill