It's Happened Before

We are not the first ones to live in a time of pandemic.  Our great grandparents went through the 1918 -1920 influenza epidemic erroneously known as the "Spanish Flu".  During that period it is thought that perhaps one quarter of the planet's population was infected. Estimates of the death toll vary widely, from 17 million to 50 million.  Hopefully our current pandemic will not last as long, nor will it take as many lives.

A friend sent an email with this letter that was written by author F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I thought that it was worth sharing.  There are some interesting parallels with our time, and the letter ends with a note of hope.

A LETTER FROM F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, QUARANTINED IN 1920 IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE DURING THE SPANISH INFLUENZA OUTBREAK.

Dearest Rosemary,

It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter.

Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so.

At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources.

The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us.

You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. Weep for the damned eventualities this future brings.

The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand.

In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.

Faithfully yours,

F. Scott Fitzgerald