There are books that suit traditional reviews. And then there are books that require a little something more personal.
The Correspondent by Virginia Evans is told entirely through letters and emails, spanning several years in the life of Sybil, a seventy-three-year-old retired lawyer living alone. Through her correspondence with family, friends, authors, strangers, and even the occasional anonymous critic, you piece together a life shaped by grief, estrangement, guilt, humour, stubbornness, and an enduring love of books and the act of writing.
It felt only right to respond in kind...
Dear Sybil,
I finished your letters and immediately wanted to write back.
I want you to know that I enjoyed every single page of your story. I laughed at your sharp observations. I teared up when the weight of your grief surfaced. I judged you once or twice. And then, as I came to understand you better, I softened.
At first, I’ll admit, you can seem stubborn. Certain. So sure, that you know what is right in every situation. But then I read this:
“You are a wonderful, interesting woman, full of love and kindness, but you are so damn stubborn and determined you know exactly what is right in every situation.”
And I realised that perhaps you already know that about yourself.
That’s what I loved most. You are not polished for our comfort. You are complicated. Opinionated. Loving. Regretful. A force. Entirely human.
When you wrote,
“I know you think of me as your mother only, but please remember, inside I am also just a girl.”
I paused.
Because that line holds something so true. No matter our age, no matter how many roles we’ve carried, stepmum, daughter, colleague, friend, inside we are still that younger version of ourselves. Still hoping to be understood. Still wanting to be seen as more than the function we serve in someone else’s life.
And then there was this:
“I know you know this, but I want to repeat that when someone(s) treats you poorly, it is a reflection of him or herself and the misery within the heart of them. It doesn’t help a bit to hear that when you’re young, but later it will.”
The tenderness of that. The wisdom that only comes with time. The acceptance that some truths don’t comfort us when we’re young but eventually settle into us quietly. We were only telling my stepdaughter the other day “you’ll understand when you’re older” and I could hear my mum saying that to me, I hated it when she did, but I get it now.
Through your letters, I came to understand the grief and guilt that have shaped you. The crushing weight of decisions made. The depression that followed. The gradual loss of your sight, which feels SO cruel for someone whose world revolves around books and written words.
And yet, even with all that, there is humour in you. Dry, sharp, often self-aware humour. There is warmth. There is curiosity. There is love.
I adored the way you wrote to authors to tell them what their books meant to you. The way you and your best friend discussed what you were reading. Books weren’t simply something you passed time with. They were your companions. Your love language. Your proof that you were still connected.
In a world of WhatsApp and emails, your commitment and joy of letters was inspiring. I immediately want a ‘pen pal’ again!
I won’t name all the things that shaped your life, in case I spoil your story for others. But I will say this: it is very easy to judge someone from a distance. Much harder when you are allowed into their private correspondence.
You reminded me that everyone is carrying a burden we cannot see. That it is rare to reach your seventies without mistakes. That sometimes the hardest forgiveness to grant is the one you owe yourself.
You are a force, Sybil.
Stubborn. Loving. Complicated. Still, inside, just a girl.
Thank you for letting me read your letters.
With warmth (and probably too many underlined passages),
Amy
If you are craving a novel that feels intimate, intelligent, and deeply human, please pick this up! Curl up with it on a slow Sunday morning like I did, let Sybil in, I promise you will laugh. You may well cry. Let me know what you think…
Written by
Amy @inkwells_bookshelf
A thirty-something, bookish, gingham-and-gaudy-mug-obsessed girl - and a firm believer that the best stories are read under a cosy duvet, with a strong coffee and a sleepy dog at your feet.
