On Unanswering E-mail
By SRSilverhawk
There are a great many people who really believe in answering letters of the electronic persuasion the moment they receive them. These are probably the same people who go to the movies at the theater at nine o'clock in the morning.
In any case, these people are both neurotic and weird.
It is a great mistake. Such brash and furious replying takes away nearly all of the ancient pleasure of the passing of letters. It removes the fine and dwindling aspects of the heart and intellect that make a fine and memorable response.
Alas, for the sake of prompt and convenience so many e-messages are sent with all the warm, tender sentimentality of a stainless-steel operating room table.
The psychological frivolities involved in receiving letters and making up one's mind to answer them are very complex. If the tangled process could somehow be combed out and properly analyzed by a competent individual, it's inner convolutions might reveal a clearer comprehension of that curious work of Mother Nature: The Procrastinating Male Mind.
* * *
Take the situation between one Quatre Raberba Winner and a certain acquaintance of his who, for the sake of privacy we shall simply refer to as Leif, for a wonderful example of this unique and wholly human phenomenon.
Leif is a man so delightful that even to contemplate his subsistence puts Quatre in good humor and makes him think well of a world that can exhibit an individual who is equally attractive (though in an entirely non-homosexual way; that's for someone else) in mind, body and estate. Every now and then Quatre would receive an electric letter from Leif. A rolling story sent through the myriad, complex webs of the Internet. Immediately after receiving the message, printing it, and reading it the young Winner lad would pass into a kind of blissful euphoria, during which his mind rapidly articulated the ideas, thoughts, surmises and contradictions that he would like to write in reply to the wonderful expression of his companion, who lived a world away.
He thinks of how much fun it would be, the wonderful joy of poetic creation, to sit down right then and there and let his fingers fly over his keyboard, the new quill and parchment, spreading speculations and matching observations and masses of philosophy. All with the purpose of being wafted Leif-ward at the moment of it's completion (perhaps he would even add an audio clip of his latest violin score if he were in the right mood).
Then, suddenly, as though struck, fingers a bare inch above the keys, Quatre stops.
Sternly he presses back his first impulse, for he knows and concerns himself immediately on the shock Leif would most certainly receive at getting so sudden and overwhelming a response. Certainly this is a dilemma worthy of the wringing of hands.
'What would he think?' The young Quatre instinctively thinks to himself and that is sure something he must wonder over with concern. 'That I could reply so quickly, do I not have a business to run? To answer that letter so brusquely, it would seem as though I had nothing better and important to spend my time on at all.'
Besides, given what he intends to say to his Leif, he would have surely rattled the tightly hinged panels of his compatriot's intellect with what he wanted to say.
Much safer to let it wait, for both parties involved. He nods at this logic. Yes, this is the best thing to do with Leif's letter.
Fully rationalized, Quatre gently lays Leif's letter to the living, breathing entity called paperwork who resides on his desk (the closest thing he can comfortably have as a pet in his line of work). Paperwork made for an inevitable companion for an office monger, still common though they were, it did pay to treat them with both caution and affection. Paperwork pets grew and ate like any living entity, mostly more paper or whatever other items left lying within their reach (not even massive coffee-table art books are safe). They were highly fascinating with the way their internal layers unsteadily shifted and slid. They may shift and move so many times that care must be taken lest one begins to spawn offspring, should that happen it's best of one puts aside a week to try to nip the smallest ones in the bud and force the largest to merge back with their parent. It has about an 87% success rate.
As far as Paperwork went Quatre's had a distinct tendency to devour any stray slip of paper left in it's company for too long, move from place to place seemingly of it's own accord, and, if not given regular trimmings of it's substance, had the potential to unsheathe numerically balanced claws and slap the cold shit out of it's owner at the most monetarily inconvenient moments. Sometimes it might even take things up a notch and innocently conceal important dates and numbers of members of it's owner's complementary gender (though once it stubbornly refused for a week to give up the last forwarding address of one chap, a very close friend of Quatre's) and be the sole cause of much strive and apologizing on the part of it's owner on it's more pissy days. However, that usually only happened when it felt it was being ignored for Quatre's other Paperwork pets.
So it was into this self-sustaining creature that Leif's letter went. Quatre then went about his business then, taking care to occasionally pat the belly of his paper tiger in his customary jolly, brisk, smiling mood thinking ahead to when he would write to his dear Leif some day soon.
* * *
Leif's letter had now been sitting somewhere near the belly of the Paperwork beast for about fourteen days and fourteen nights, a fortnight to the well read. By now it had been gently covered over by at least a dozen other pleasantly postponed manuscripts of brilliant intellect. Coming upon Leif's letter quite by chance, Quatre is mildly amused to discover in his reflections that any specific problems raised by Leif in that manifest will have most assuredly run their course and have settled themselves. Leif's random speculations upon business management as compared to the chaotically organized wasp's nest and the factors of free will versus predestination had taken a new slant to Quatre now. So much so, that to now answer the letter in a similar vein would not been proper because the matter had already passed.
'Oh no, I waited too long.' The blue-eyed Arab must now anguish to himself. 'I can't write Leif back now. I've waited too long and now I am current no longer. I can't say anything intelligent to reply now.'
Now he had better bide his time a tiny bit longer, just until he really had something important and new to say to Leif.
So passed a nervous next week… My how time flies when one spends it worrying.
By this time a certain sense of guilty shame had slithered into the privacy of Quatre Raberba Winner's brain. He felt that to answer that letter now would be an extreme breach of delicacy (not to mention terribly unsubtle).
'Tis better to pretend the letter wasn't received at all, yes… Mr. Winner never got a letter from his dear friend Lief. Leif will write again and then Quatre will answer as soon as he gets it. Politeness be damned, no more of that horrid waiting about for no good reason.
Quatre places the letter back within striking distance of Paperwork (who quickly eats it again) and thinks about what a fine fellow Leif is. Leif knows he loves him (as a friend, of course) so it does not really matter if the blond writes or not.
That thought and a strong cup of chamomile tea settles the matter, so, relieved, Quatre settles back to wait again.
* * *
Another week has passed by and still nothing has come from Leif. Quatre has begun to use the royal "we" when thinking of Leif and we begin to wonder whether or not Leif loves us as much as we previously thought. Time to begin wondering again, this time with a stress ball (and some Turkish coffee) But still—we are too proud and ashamed to write and ask Lief of his cares and troubles.
Worry increases as another two days go by without word from Leif. However, a new thought strikes us. Perhaps Leif thinks we are dead and is very cranky, as he has not been invited to the funeral. 'Should we call Leif?' Quatre asks himself, 'Because, after all, we are not dead and even if Leif thinks we were his inevitable relief at out continued existence will override his annoyance at our silence. Yes, to repay Leif for waiting for us we will write him a letter that will really tell him how we feel about him (not like that, Leif is our friend, we must remember that).'
But… it would be good to let that sit and stew for a while, for letters from the heart are like the finest wines; they develop bright colors and cheery bubbles if corked for a time.
* * *
'Damn that Rashid! Just because we did not sleep for two days and two nights, and spent the third thinking out-loud about corked Leif-letter wines we get dragged down to an analyst who says we should sleep, relax more and go back to the chamomile. Fine, it was fair enough, we would not do that anymore….'
'Oh, we were not to call ourselves "we" anymore also…. Bah, therapists, like lawyers, they need to be shot.'
* * *
Presently, Mr. Winner goes back to properly check on Paperwork again. He finds that in all the nooks and cronies of the fiber monster there are three or four letters from others that have been residing there now for at least six months that can safely be destroyed. Leif is still on his mind, but in a dreamy "yes, I know that fellow" sort of way. He does not twinge the Arab's mind with guilt as he had a month ago. 'It is a fine thing,' Quatre languorously thinks to himself now, 'to have a friend like him and keep in touch with them.' He often wonders where he is and whether he has two children or three. That terrific fellow, Leif!
By this time, Quatre has written several letters to Leif in his imagination and has greatly enjoyed doing so, but the actual action of sending him a letter has begun to rankle in his mind. The thought no longer holds the delicious delight it used to and the tempting lure of it is gone.
When one feels like that it is very unwise to write. Letters should be done of one's free will, not out of duty. Quatre is pretty sure Leif would not like a letter done out of pure duty.
'Wouldn't he?…. Oh, dear….'
* * *
Another fortnight passes and suddenly Quatre realizes that he has no idea of what Leif had originally written to him about. He goes to find the letter only to discover that Paperwork has completely digested it.
Darn the luck.
Fortunately, he manages to remember most of what was there. Quatre then takes this opportunity to sit and think it over. What a delightful fellow Leif is! Full of his own serious, tongue-in-cheek wit, though some of it is a little old to him now; having lost it's novelty (a sure sign of it's age). It seems a little stale to the Arab now.
He wonders if Leif can wait until Ramadan without a letter. The fasting holiday will be here shortly.
Quatre is sure Leif can wait for that special occasion. 'But what if he can't?' A little voice in the back of his head frets.
* * *
Quatre has been re-reading some of those imaginary letters to Leif that have been dancing around in his head. He delights in knowing that they are full of fine things to talk about. If Leif ever gets to hear them he well know how much Quatre loves him (in an entirely friendly way). From those ethereal letters…
* * *
Out of the blue a very curious thought strikes Quatre one sunny day. Perhaps it would be best if he never saw his dear Leif again. It is very difficult to talk to a man when you like him as much as Quatre like Leif. It would be much easier to write in a sweet, charming strain; Quatre being so inarticulate when face to face (rather like how he is with one other person).
That settles it, if Leif comes to town Quatre must leave word that he is away. Good, sweet Leif! He will be a fond memory.
* * *
A few days later, whilst nervously expecting Leif to jump out from behind the nearest corner with concert tickets, a sudden frenzy grips one Quatre Raberba Winner. Though he has a great many other important things to do in a very pressing manner of time he mobilizes his keyboard, word processor and literary shock troops and prepares to launch a coordinated strike at Leif. But, odd as it may seem, his very first lines are taut and overformal. He has found that in the midst of all those dream letters to Leif he had no end to what he wanted to say. But here now, at his keyboard, he had nothing to say. "Me dear Leif," the letter began, "it seems to be quite a long time since I've heard from you. I love you still in spite of your shortcomings."
'No, no that will never do. He'll take offence for sure! And I was the one who started this mess!' Quatre must now cry to himself. And most properly as well, for it was true, it was his doing that started this and those lines did read so cold and frigid. So here he was, ruminating painfully over board and touch pad, bursting with his affection for Leif, and unable to say a word.
Just then the phone rings, and quite out of habit Quatre picks the receiver up and sets it too his ear without a thought. "Hello, Quatre Winner speaking?" he says, quite innocently enough.
It is Leif! Having come to pay a visit so unexpectedly!
"Good old sport!" Quatre cries, ecstatic and positively dancing with glee behind his desk. "Yes, of course! Meet you at the airport in then minutes." Paperwork was unceremoniously knocked to the floor by the accidental sweep of it's owner's arm and with fluttering curses proceeded to spread itself out as thinly as possible for maximum annoyance come pick-up time.
Quatre deletes every last vestige of the unfinished letter. Leif will never know how much Quatre loves him (but not like that, that's for a certain someone with brown hair and fathomless green eyes). Perhaps it is just for the best. It is very embarrassing to have one's friends know how one truly feels about them… after all. When Quatre meets his dear Leif he will be on guard. It would not do well to be betrayed into any extravagance of geniality.
* * *
And so ends the strange tale of Quatre and Leif. A tale of how a simple case of procrastination almost caused the fall of an heir and the intellectual shock to an intelligent gentleman. Oh, and also about how a certain beastie named Paperwork got a severe case of indigestion.
However, in the same vein as this tale there is perhaps a not completely false story about a quiet boy who never visited those most dear to him because it panged him to the very soul to say good-bye when he had to leave.
A totally false story that would not be, but, if nothing more, the one solid truth that would lie therein is that that boy's name would be Trowa Barton. Or at least, that's the name he says to use when speaking to or of him.