Letters

It is well known among my acquaintances that I rarely read letters addressed to me (even my accountant knows that).

This is because I consider incoming personal messages to be, potentially, of four basic types:

So well written that they deserve publication and it is a travesty that their author is as yet unknown in the literary world.

The likelihood of receiving such a letter is so low as to be effectively inexistent, but I may have missed a couple of literary masterpieces over the years.

Those that contain a cheque, in which case the letter is superfluous since the name of my benefactor will be on the cheque and he or she can thus be thanked in person and may receive greater indulgence, at least verbally, and - in exceptional circumstances - even food, beverages, mild praise and some enduring fondness.

Those that wish to scold me for some real or imagined misdeed (I consider all letters to be potentially hostile until proven otherwise) and that the sender invariably regrets sending anyway, so I discard them unread as a gesture of goodwill.

Those that provide me with information, which, if of an important nature, will anyway be followed by a telephone call or second letter marked "urgent" when my inaction gives cause for alarm.

I make an exception for greeting cards in the festive seasons and birthday cards because they are generally very concise, sometimes contain a cheque, and oftentimes offer some touching platitude or expression of goodwill, which, as a sentimental man, I always appreciate.