When Kenneth Millar (detective novelist “Ross Macdonald”) read in a New York Times interview that Eudora Welty had once almost sent him a fan letter but then refrained because she feared to do so might be “icky,” he sent her a fan letter of his own. Thus began a correspondence that would last twelve years, from 1970 to 1982, only ending six months before Millar's death from the complications of Alzheimer's.
The times they met face to face could be counted almost on one hand, yet their first meeting—a year plus a week after the letters started, in the lobby of Manhattan's Algonquin Hotel—established a close bond which grew more intense with each year. Although Welty was a maiden lady in her early 60's, conventional in her morals, and Millar was a man in his late 50's committed to his marriage (he was the husband of mystery novelist Margaret Millar), their epistolary romance—nuanced, deliberate in its purity, yet filled with an intense personal regard—is a testimony to human love just as moving as the letters of Heloise and Abelard or Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning.
I have heard it said that intense flirtation is tantamount to adultery, and I will concede that, in this age, it is often true. But not here. Not in these letters.
Welty and Millar refuse to create any sort of mutual fantasy world. What they do instead is to share and explore the particular details of each others lives, their likes and dislikes, discovering in otherwise insignificant connections—a mutual friend, the joint affection for an obscure novel, a city they both once visited (or plan to visit), a shared literary contact or political opinion, a recent bird sighting, a few strikingly similar (or dissimilar) days of weather--a confluence of correspondences that may serve to bring the great rivers of their two selves together. (It is a metaphor that Welty would explore in her Pulitzer prize winning novel, The Optimist's Daughter (1972), where she speaks of the union of the Mississippi and the Ohio at Cairo, Illinois: “All they could see was sky, water, birds, and confluence. It was the whole morning world.”)
This can be a sad book, and it gets even sadder toward the end. The reader feels each writer's desire for the other's presence in almost every line, a desire more poignant as Millar's Alzheimer's progresses. His letters grow more laconic and less frequent, until at the last it is just Welty who writes, conjuring the particular connections they share in an ever continuing litany, desperate to keep the confluence flowing even as it ebbs away.
Both are long dead now of course. But—thanks to biographers and editors Marr and Nolan—“there are letters.” And although they may not be “the whole morning world,” these letters are certainly a resplendent piece of it, a reminder of how two people—through the magic of their words and their chaste and ardent imaginations—once contrived to make “the whole morning world” shine.