On Writing Letters

Look, they say. These black signs on white paper, they are me. My blood ran with this ink; here, where I turned the page, it was pain to stem the flow, even for an instant, so strongly the current ran toward you. This is me, here I am. This is what I feel, what I think, what I do.

This is the lizard I am seeing, this is the lunch I ate. The sun is shining on me, now it has gone in and I feel the cold. I have put on the painted shawl. To-night what is left of me after I have finished this letter will be unhappy and alone; but I am happy with you, and what I am now is here, is in your hand as you read.

--- Sylvia Townsend Warner
As quoted in the TLS
5 October 2012