What ‘The Correspondent’ by Virginia Evans Returned To Me

Postman! You’ve Got Mail! ‘The Correspondent‘ rings the pleasantest of my memory bells.

My dear reader,

If you are reading this, I want to thank you for waiting for me for nearly six months. It has been the longest in 21 years that I have been away from this blog. At some point, I hope to share what happened in this time and I will, after I make sense of it all in my head. For now, it has been a journey of self-reckoning and sometimes that needs quiet time to simmer alone.

The book charmed me at first random opening, which brought up a letter about Kashuo Ishiguro’s ‘Never Let Me Go‘. I am greatly cheered by signs such as this. This was the book that signalled a hard but worthwhile lesson for me last year on who I am, how the world is. It was the start of my mapping how I want to navigate the rest of my life, at least for now. This is why I finally put down the cash on the book.

This morning, it felt easier to choose to read over my morning tea, rather than watch a video. My Current Reading list is full of very good books which feel like hard work. But this one had the feel of re-opening a much cherished letter—or more recently, a postcard. The letter that I read, immediately struck me for the journey it took on a single page. It would have felt like a bait-and-switch in what we call conversation today. But because it was a letter, as I well remember from my days as a letter writer and diarist, it followed the beautifully clean rules of engagement that human civilization had perfected over centuries.

First, the warm and very personal greeting. Specific ‘Thank you’s are the best way to do this. Then a precise, yet polite apology for a relatively minor No. And finally a firm stand on the really big thing. Sign off with precision, politeness and always, warmth. Perfect *chef’s kiss*.

I remember this in my bones, like it’s muscle memory. This is how I write emails. It is how I try to frame my messages. Any act of communication deserves consideration. The image of several crumpled pieces of paper, around a pair of hands poised over a sheet of paper is dramatization of that consideration. A letter that arrives with ink smudges and cancellations or overwriting shows that consideration too. I thought word-processessing and digital connectivity were tools to improve these, not to erase them.

In the past few months. I’ve been told that my messages are too long and boring to read. In a professional interaction, I was put off by the callousness of an emoji tapped on a painstakingly crafted email that I had sent. Especially since I had asked an important question, which the recipient did not answer and worse still, penalised me for asking. I have since, stopped saying hello and thank you on emails to them. I have also began rethinking what I want to share with the person with whom I text and when I occasionally lapse into authentic sharing, I am quick to apologise and hold myself back from initiating the next conversation. And this is how conversations are thwarted.

Yet, I don’t want to linger on this sour note. My first instinct after reading the letter in the book, was to share this gem of a thought with two people. One, a friend who equally loves words, quiet pondering and gentle sharing. I sent her a voicenote, as with her, it feels safe for me to try this unfamiliar medium. The other, a new friend who is full of bright ideas and translates youth culture to me, but who has an unusual gentleness to her and might be open to the idea. I am going to send her this blogpost.

I wonder if the current buzziness of this book, will inspire more people to return to letter-writing and correspondingly the art of communicating well. It would be easy to say that anyone who was already this way, is already doing it. But that feels cynical about the people who just weren’t born yet to an era where letter-writing was the norm, and the art of communicating well was aspirational. It is also needlessly harsh on people such as myself who have just felt defeated by a world that responded only with harshness. I want to think that it serves as a reminder to us that we are not alone.

The other side of this courteousness and consideration was the knowledge that not everyone was a letter-writer or even the same kind of letter-writer. One hoped of course, for a reply because it was and still is always a delight to receive mail. It is so strange for someone who remembers that feeling, to now live in a world where notifications are treated with a groan (even by oneself). This is not because communication is unwelcome. It is because this is not communication at all.

Last week, I listened to a voice note sent by one of the two people I’ve mentioned above (which had been sent a day earlier). She said that she really appreciated having a space with me to respond on her own time and headspace. I want to remind her that this is a space we create together. It is also why I felt safe sending her a voice note this morning that was not a reply to hers, but this new thought. And that voice note became this blogpost and my return (I hope) to writing. Nothing about this is groanworthy; only deserving of warmth and cheer.

People who wrote letters and sent postcards did not make character judgements about themselves based on who responded and how. That is not how communication works and I say that knowing that human communication has preceded digital platforms by centuries. And this does give me hope. Humanity has always found ways to connect and bond. A decade of so is a mere blip in history and culture. I will close on that cheerful thought.

I hope you have a day of cheer and peace, after you close this window.

Update: 12 April 2026

Today I went to a book club discussion of ‘The Correspondent’. It was a much bigger group than usual; I have discovered only recently that my ideal social group size is between 2 and 4. Any bigger and I feel overrun by other people’s feelings and words. But today was an exception. It may have been the book and equally it could have been the club itself and how its founder has nurtured it.

It was interesting to hear that there were people who did not like this book. Several mentioned that it was too slow for them. A few found the epistolary style not to their taste. Most interesting to me was an opinion about Sybil herself and how the book may feel like it presents her private tragedy as an excuse for her unforgivable professional decision. It made me reconsider just how much of the reader itself goes into the journey of deciding whether a book is ‘good’ or not. This really is a conversation, just as with letters. The author speaks and risks entering the dangerous realm of strangers minds which may yield judgement, fear, hostility, hatred and other such things. And isn’t that the very risk of speaking itself—known to be the most common fear among human beings?

Happily for my ego, one of the participants at this meet told me that they had read my review of the book and chosen to come to this discussion. So yes, this is why we write and speak. Those sparkly sweet things of validation, recognition and even just being seen or heard, even if just for a few seconds. I exist! we all scream out into the ether (or ethernet cables). Isn’t that even what the initially-mysterious DM in the book is doing? Gives you a whole different perspective on trolls and such.

But before I let my words run away with me (always a problem for a long blocked-up writer who has suddenly begun spewing again), here’s the aforementioned Goodreads review, which I actually wrote after the post above.

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was the exact book I needed at this time. I was recovering from a long-term illness, which among other things had distanced me from the people in my life and also created a writing block. Sybil’s letters reminded me of how easy it would be to pick up writing again, if only through correspondance.

I say, ‘the lost art of letter-writing’ which sounds cliched but it’s only in my middle age that I am realizing just how much of an art form it is. For those of us born before the internet became a reality, we were taught letter-writing in school. Entire social rituals were built around letters. When you moved to a new address, you would need to ask people to update their address books and also find the nearest postbox. Household inventory would always include envelopes, stamps and writing paper. One of the milestones of my childhood writing journey was being trusted to write the address on the envelope, in addition to the childish prattle and drawings inside. The new term after a vacation would usually begin with a writing assignment of an essay or a thank you letter to whomever we had visited.

When I entered the working world, these insticts led me to think deeply about how to end my emails. “Your faithful/obedient servant” had been relegated to the British-style education of Indian schools. This was the new millenium after all. “Yours sincerly” sounded too archaic for the new medium called email. I eventually settled on “With regards” which felt both polite and avoided overt emotion or obsequiousness. I still use these as well as beginning with an address. It seems extremely rude for me to dash off an email without at least saying hello first.

Sybil’s letters also made me realise how much of the craft I was already practicising, such as beginning by thanking the person. If you can find a way to begin with a thank you, you’re off to a pleasant start. And this allows you to bring up difficult subjects, express dissent or say no, with firmness without fear of being rude. Of course, the whole thing needs an approach of sincerity. Generic thank yous are no better than the average hospitality industry worker parroting the words in a bored turn. They need to be a personal acknowledgement of something the letter writer truly feels, even if nothing else but gratitude for being allowed a chance to express something.

Last year, I found myself put off by the epistolary format after soldiering through the excruciating, self-indulgent and lazy River of Smoke. I am so glad that it turned out to be an exception. As I now recall, I have enjoyed this format before as well, in books such as The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and e Squared. Sybil’s letters are thoughtfully crafted. And one is never confused about who is writing, because the replies that she receives are distinct in style and tone. There is a different sort of challenge in carrying forward a plot entirely through written correspondence only. Especially when a story such as this goes back and forth across nearly 80 years.

But the book reminded me of the genuine empathy that must underlie all human communication. A need to connect, to ponder together, to know about the other person, to be impacted by their life and to express this impact. All in all, it was a gorgeous experience. I blazed my way through the book, all the while trying to slow down simply because I couldn’t bear for the letters to end. As it is only March, it feels premature to say this but this is likely the best book that I will read this year.