A beautiful novel, a testament to the written word, reminds us that “One ought to be precious with communication. Remember: words, especially those written, are immortal.”

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“Aging is such a privilege” wrote a friend I’ve known since my college days. I’m only beginning to understand Becky’s birthday sentiment but my appreciation for her comment has been helped by my recent reading of a thoughtful, intimate, well conceived and well written novel. It packs a subtle yet powerful message: we can grow and change even when change seems impossible. It is also a testament to the power of the written word. I’ve seldom been as touched by a book in recent years.

The Correspondent: A Novel (2025) by Virginia Evans revolves around a lifetime of written correspondence to and from Sybil Van Antwerp. A mother, grandmother, wife, divorcee, distinguished lawyer, retiree . . . Sybil has lived a very full life. For much of it she has used letters to make sense of that life. At about half-past ten most mornings she sits down at her desk overlooking the river, with her mug of Irish breakfast tea and milk, and writes. Letters, usually written in a clear hand, go to her brother; to her best friend; to the president of the University of Maryland who will not allow her to audit a class; to Joan Didion, Ann Patchett, and Larry McMurtry to tell them what she thinks of their latest books; to a young son of a former colleague who is brilliant but troubled. Those individuals usually respond. It is what one would call a “rich” correspondence, although some would say it chronicles a small life. And that’s the wonder of this book. In capturing one woman’s life—the joys, sorrows, births, deaths, pain experienced, pain hidden, pain finally explored—Evans has produced a vibrant work that envelops and moves the reader.

Many days Sybil also writes to one individual where the letters are never sent. But when a painful event from her past rises up—through a series of letters, of course—Sybil finally understands that she will need to examine this part of her life in ways that bring pain, sorrow, forgiveness, and ultimately growth and fulfillment.

Sybil is not afraid of dispensing advice and opinions. In writing to Judge Landy, the father of the young boy who has connected with her, she notes: “Leave it to your generation to take someone who is absolutely brilliant and turn it into a problem.” When a prospective suitor from Texas asks her to dinner and throws in a condescending line about women delivering a punch line, she declines and replies: “A good punch line is a good punch line regardless if delivered by a man or a woman. You sound like an old fool with comments like that one.”

The oncoming loss of her eyesight leads Sybil, ironically, to see her life more clearly. She learns how to forgive both herself and others. She recognizes the treasures next door and halfway around the world. In one of her last letters, when she tells one she loves a secret she has never revealed perhaps even truly to herself, she writes:

“There is a quote from one of my friend Joan Didion’s essays. It’s from the last essay in The White Album. The quote is: ‘What I have made for myself is personal, but is not exactly peace,’ and then it goes on, and then, ‘Most of us live less theatrically, but remain the survivors of a peculiar and inward time.’ This feels like the truest thing I have ever read.”

This love has brought her to “recognize how knowing you has been like coming in from the cold, lonely road to find a warm fire and a table laid.”

When we finish The Correspondent we feel much the same way. One can change when change seems impossible. And in the end, working through the pain in our lives can lead us to living those lives more fully, peacefully, and joyfully. Writer Fran Littlewood described the journey as one that “will make you laugh, it will make you cry, it will make you reflect, as all the best novels do.”

This is a beautiful and brilliant work.

More to come . . .

DJB

Photo from Unsplash.