Although the phrase may be cliche, as far as the Morgan Library and ephemera goes, one man's trash is truely another man's treasure. I was amazed to hold letters in my hand written by Upton Sinclair and Edgar Allen Poe. I wondered if these legendary men had ever thought for even a moment, as they wrote these letters to their friends and lovers, that a nineteen-year old girl from Wisconsin would be reading them in the year 2008. I think I remember reading in one of the letters being passed around, a quote going something along the lines of "...and the kind comments I made about your great boobs..." and I found it comical to think that such letters could be of such high value for historians and literary scholars. I pictured historians years from now carefully studying the AIM convos from some famous artist and discovering the truth about their romantic life from, "so, omg, you like like me? lol...ur gr8, ttfn i lylabf...hehe..."
On a serious note, however, it is incredible that we are able to look into the personal lives and investigate the unique personalities of these historical icons through their letters and writings. I was most interested in the manuscript of Poe (it was Poe right?), written on the long scroll. Seeing his own hand writing right there in front of me, no glass covering the beautiful cursive markings, I felt as though I was transported back to the 1800's, watching Poe as he thought out his story and chose which words to lay down on the paper. I was also very intrigued by Jack Kerouac's letters, which were on display in an upstairs gallery. Feeling sort of connected to him at the moment, his novel resting on my side table as we speak (or type), I was excited to get to know the man more. On display were two of his letters, written to a reporter about an interview the reporter had been trying to get. Kerouac, in a sort of witty way, explained to the reporter that he would only be responding to interview questions by mail because his mother was sick in their house. It was so interesting to compare Kerouac's writing in "On The Road", which feels so personal already, to his actual personal letter written out of his home to the reporter. Again I felt transported, this time to Kerouac's home, watching him as he tried to decide the best way to deal with the reporter and his new found fame simultaneously.
Before visiting the Morgan, I had never thought to keep such things as little notes or letters or emails from my friends, but now I may question the future value of these items. Who knows, I could be rooming with a future president of the United States, and a note to me about her scandalous endevours in our dorm room the night before could prove to be pretty valuable when her time in office comes around.
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