Artifacts & Resources

I know so well from your face, bearing, and words, too, that I can barely sympathize with you because it is a real burden to love things, to want them to know that you love them, or have them dwell in even when your earnest thoughts. Nothing worries me so much as to have about me some one who is as dismally and fatally glum.

Transcription of Letter #2

Thursday

My own dear Molly,

Another addition to your collection of notes. I love you, notes. I confess that if I weren’t so much in love that I wanted to do something of your notes, I’d be writing stories, or maybe comics, largely if instead of notes to you.

Page 2

I have found that, and as soon as all the elements that can be centralized and focused on a single point, I know I’ll make the grade.

However, at odd times, I shall be seized with an irresistible impulse to jot a thought or two in writing to you. Some folks might think it a waste of time, but inasmuch as I have your right face every day, I can’t be worried by that.

I cannot repeat to you too often, either by words of mouth or in writing, that I am so much in love with you that sometimes I scarcely know what I am doing.

Page 3

Really, Molly, I tell you no untruth when I say, that contrary to the general belief that it isn’t necessary to make love to give her heart after she has given hers…

Page 4

…I feel that I ought to guide her a while longer. I want to work those, and yet I wonder about it.

The love I feel for your heart is greater than as it was at the beginning. It is deepened and greater for a reason of a feeling.

Page 5

I look forward to days when you feel that enough is given to your affections.

Love to Molly’s heart so much clearer to the star.

Page 6

Oh, I do love you, Molly—oh, so much more than I can tell you, and thank the stars.

Nate

Friday night

My own dear Molly,

You know I would like to see you—tonight and every other night and day. There isn’t a minute when my first wish wouldn’t be that I could be with you. But I know, of course, that that is a desire only, to be devoutly wished. And after being disappointed that I can’t see you tonight, I am sorry that any sort of inconvenience rate should creep in to give you an unhappy thought.

I know so well from your face, bearing, and words, too, that I can barely sympathize with you because it is a real burden to love things, to want them to know that you love them, or have them dwell in even when your earnest thoughts. Nothing worries me so much as to have about me some one who is as dismally and fatally glum.

I don’t get mad—it just hurts me because all of this I know I have nothing whatever to do with bringing their condition about my conscience hurts me probably because I should find some way of relieving the strain.

I feel badly, Molly, because I know you do, I know what a helpless feeling it is to see. When you are sad, I reserve the right to be the same way, but I am glad I can be, because in the end, it makes me do all that I can to try and help you.

Oh, I do love you, Molly, just as much and just as reverently as you are, and I see, a vital part of me. I want you, Molly, and need you as I never thought I would need anyone.