While reading A Dreadful Man, I find I’m lamenting the lost art of letter writing.

Perhaps, in this digital age, there is simply no magic left in crafting a letter by hand. Or relating daily activities. Or being witty. What have telephones, the internet, and social media done to us?

Where are the artisans?

And don’t get me started on how passive aggressive we’ve become as a society.

The letters in this book are fantastic. They convey true affection, yet are also remarkably blunt at times. Perhaps it’s communication that’s a lost art.

Who today would send the following to someone who doesn’t approve of the man she’s going to marry?

I see at the end of your letter you say, “If there is anything we can do, please do not hesitate to let us know.” Well, I suppose having been such an old friend I must hesitate in front of such a tempting invitation, but I have an almost overpowering inclination to tell you.

Sadly, and clearly with no love, for I do not want to see you again.

The book is largely a collection of correspondences from George Sanders and Benita Hume to the author, Brian Aherne. As such, it feels more like Aherne’s story about himself, but I still find it interesting as it portrays many of Sanders’s idiosyncracies and personality. The letters provide a great glimpse into the voices of the writers, at least.

Where will our future historians learn about us? If (when?) technology fails, will they be able to extract what we were like in the 21st century—from our Instagram posts and tweets? Even then, all Twitter is is blind rage to anyone who’ll listen, and overreaction to any little thing that might be deemed offensive.

Perhaps it is true:

Women are excitable, and not to be taken seriously. I am sure that, secretly, she strongly suspects that I am a shit.

And in our current world, it is frowned upon for men to be men. Better to avoid confrontation—even if it means ghosting.

What’s a fellow to do?

Which brings me to my best friend. Both of us have a minuscule circle of friends… only one or two each true friends. I know I am notoriously difficult to like, or even to get to know—let alone date.

Yet I crave my solitude, and really only keep people around that I find entertaining. Even if:

I might even be his only friend… but that was because the unusual quality of his mind interested and amused me. I explained that, in his odd way, Sanders had been a good friend to me and I liked him…

Most people I know are so mediocre and dull—and strive to maintain that lack of shine. I suppose I should consider myself lucky to have a few friends that truly amuse AND understand me.

And support me through my wild phases & bad decisions.

Yet, there is always room for more. The invitation is always open, and I am frequently delighted by new people. How else can I meet those who might enjoy this adventure?

And, who might enjoy exchanging handwritten letters with me?

Our desire for adventure has been replaced with obligations. Where are the beauties, the courtesans, the muses, the nurturers, strong and caring, lovely and radiant?