Member-only story
letters to tolstoy
Dear Leo, our last meeting was rather rushed. I didn’t have a proper pen and paper to take down your innermost thoughts as you had promised, plus you were in a very big hurry to get on that train. You nearly forgot to pay for the tea we had as we chatted over the merits of sex and the perils of home and hearth.
I wanted to tell you as you were rushing away, that my mind has been unable to cope with the infinite platitudes of those around me. I know you have often felt the same way, seeking a life more visceral and less, shall we say, provincial, despite your installment at your family’s sprawling estate.
The last time we met, you told me I should love again and that it was my inability to unfurl my parasol at the right time to catch the gaze of a passing gentleman. That comment alone sounds like you hung out with Rilke, but we both know how that meeting turned out. Hey, I meant to ask you, did you talk about parasols when you met him?
Anyway, I was thinking as I watched you rush towards the platform that I might unfurl my parasol for the right man, but the right man has never presented himself to me, and that could be, as I have told you, that we don’t have parasols anymore. We call them umbrellas and no one carries them even when it rains.
Sure, everyone keeps saying I’ll find someone one day. Or when I’ve decided I want someone, but…
