Last January, on a snowy Sunday afternoon, I chanced to find my orphaned correspondence abandoned appropriately in the back of a closet. I began to read the words I had written fifty-six years ago and recognized my wrinkleless face in the mirror of those pages, insecure in my illicit desires, anxious to pay Caesar his due, and yet the dauphin of my romantic dramas, warts and all. They stirred awake all those lost slumbering memories of Germany and the days of hurry up and wait. How could I have guessed that one day I would share these letters with you?
This article is reserved for subscribed members only. If you are already a member, you can log in here below.
Subscribe for full access to The Eye of Photography archives!
That’s thousands of images and articles, documenting the history of the medium of photography and its evolution during the last decade, through a unique daily journal. Explore how photography, as an art and as a social phenomenon, continue to define our experience of the world. Two offers are available.
Subscribe either monthly for $5 or annually for $50 (2 months offered).