Today I found myself oddly moved by two of Hopkins's letters, one from 1884 to his sister Kate, one from 1885 to Bridges, placed adjacent to each other in The Major Works. Partly it's the knowledge that he's only got another four or so years to live, but it's also the courage of the priest in his obvious despair, that makes them so poignant.
The letter to Kate is basically a humorous piece, with some nice mickey-taking on the Irish accent (GMH is in Dublin, at Stephen's Green - a location all Joyceans will enjoy) and it's a relief to get a glimpse of our Jesuit's sense of fun. But knowing how hard he found his stay in Ireland adds another dimension to the jokes. This becomes clearer, in a sense, in the letter following to Bridges - despite the months between. There's a reference to the sonnets of despair in this one, and a direct echo in a reference to himself as time's eunuch. Yet it's the quiet courage of the man that stays with this reader rather than the depression. It's simple really: After all I do not despair, things might change, anything may be; only there is no great appearance of it.
It's an odd thing how some writers you love as the people they are. I can't read any of the poems without that consciousness, and it adds to their greatness.
I'm done with them for now though, and the prose, having got the end of Catherine Phillips's edition. I recommend it for those who might only have encountered The Windhover, God's Grandeur or Goldengrove in anthologies.
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