Saul Bellow, as you may know (reader already dozing off on a plastic sun bed at the fake beach club by the sea where a million chubby children are jumping in a murky, warm, chlorine-filled swimming pool while voluptuous mothers compare silicone nails, boobs, lips, butts, tummy tucks and snazzy mobile phone tones, over the yelling at offspring in hideous manglish - Kayaaaaa ghadtlek don't jamp in dee laydee) - but I forge ahead anyway, Saul Bellow, as you may or may not know, was an American writer of great acclaim who lived until the ripe old age of 89.

A native of Chicago, Bellow based many of his novels in the Windy City. Bellow used the world around him to fuel his work, or perhaps it was the world around him that made him write in the first place - either way, many comparisons have been made between his personal life and his works, for they thickly overlap. When reading his work, one gets the feeling that Bellow is seated right beside you having a gripe, shaking a fist at the universe, as well as at himself (for we are all flawed). I am sure that Bellow's longevity had something to do with the way he wrote; an unleashing of pent up frustrations and disappointments, both with the self and with others, known or unknown. Get it off your chest and you will feel your best!

In his novel Herzog, the protagonist spends much of his time writing letters that he never sends. He writes to people that he knows and to people that he has never met, both alive and dead. Like Herzog, I often find myself composing letters to people that I have never met, in which I try to express a sentiment that would, I like to believe, somehow change things for the better. They are letters to people who would probably feel a slight twang of embarrassment or shame upon reading them, but it would be only a small pinch, for I am not naïve enough to think that the greedy, 'successful' man is not aware of the damage that he is doing.

The letters I compose (sitting at the last place left for swimming, a cover on the west coast of Malta) go something like this: Dear Mister fishfarms, how dare you disrespect the sea! It is not for you to pollute and corrupt the natural systems of man that have been working in harmony through the many ages of this planet.

Mister fishfarms, do you not see that if you continue to disregard the systems there will soon be no fish left in the sea with which to fill your pockets (but you will be dead by then so who cares, eh!)? Mister fishfarms, the sea, a clear and magnificent sea once enjoyed by thousands, is a remarkable gift to these islands and you are ruining it with your greed. A thousand plagues upon your houses, you deserve little else!

I also compose letters of thanks (with only a touch of disdain): Dear creator of earth and sky, what an awe-inspiring place you have created. I cannot even begin to imagine how you came up with such remarkable beauty, so great variety of creatures and crags. But really, did we have to evolve from the monkey? Could we not have been more like elephants or lobsters, nightingales or seahorses. Thank you creator, for taking time out to read this note, I will not bother you any further, and remember I am mostly writing with thanks for all that you have bestowed upon us, EM.

Letters that will never be sent, letters that can never be read, but letters nevertheless; a cry drowned out by the diggers and the cranes and the boy racers and the aeroplanes and the belching buses.

As the cash till rings up another bill, I write a letter to the Cree: Dear Cree, I know that you have tried for thousands of years to hold fast to your beliefs: respect for the land; respect for family; respect for the Creator; and respect for the Cree language and culture. I also know that you guys can't take your drink, so I can't understand how you let so many of your people get taken away by the bottle...but that is now why I am writing to you. I am writing to you to say that I think of you often, about how you said that only when the last fish has been caught will we discover that we cannot eat money, and I am still astounded at how we know this, but continue to destroy everything that is pure and wild and free.

Why, why, why, do we do this? Do you think we all secretly harbour a desire for imprisonment and annihilation? It is only with a metaphysical question that I can answer the above. Please advise...

And after I have finished with the business of writing, l feel a tremendous lift, and as I look down, I see it is my feet, springing off the shore, into the deep blue to enjoy one more swim in the clear waters of the west, where the white man has still not quite come.


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