Guardian Review

Pity poor Gordon Brown and his letter of condolence. Because what can one possibly say? And how can one say it? It's not as easy as it looks. Take George Bernard Shaw, for example, writing to Mrs Patrick Campbell on the death of her son, Acting Lieutenant-Commander Alan Campbell, killed in action, 30 December 1917. The best the great logomonomaniac could do: "Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN. And oh, dear, dear, dear, dear, dear, dearest!" Or take Edith Sitwell writing to the mother of Wilfred Owen on the anniversary of his death, struggling to raise the self out of pity: "If only one could express what one feels, ever." And TE Lawrence, perhaps the most troubled and honest of all, admitting at the end of a letter to Thomas Hardy's widow, "This is not the letter I'd like to write." None of us likes to write a letter of condolence. But what of the letters we might like to read? Phyllida Law's Notes to My Mother-in-law is a collection of hastily scrawled notes to her mother-in-law, Annie, who lived with her for 17 years. Annie had started to lose her hearing, so Law started jotting things down for her. "They only took a wax impression of the deaf ear, and that must be the one you are meant to put in I think. Why not try Vaseline? I don't think licking it is a good idea." "Is it collar you want? Or is it slipper? Green or smoked? Middle gammon is something like 84p per lb. It'll be a great help to have something to cut cold on Saturday." "It's a 'Zimmer', darling. A 'zither' is a musical instrument." "We'll use some of this baby talc to stop your legs sticking together." Vivid, zesty, full of fun, the book is an absolute tear-jerker. Tony Benn's Letters to My Grandchildren might also make you shed a tear. His first letter - to his grandchildren Nahal, Michael, James, William, Jonathan, Caroline, Emily, Daniel, Hannah and Sarah - sets the tone. "Now that chemical, nuclear and biological weapons are so widespread, yours is one of the first generations in human history with the power to destroy the human race." Letter four: "The abuse by elected members of parliament of their position for the purposes of self-enrichment, and the antics of the non-elected advisers which lower the debate to the level of the gutter, only exacerbate the cynicism which is so corrosive of trust." Letter 13: "The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, to give its full title, is neither united nor great, but is a small group of islands off the north-west coast of Europe." Letter 17 explains the advantages of the single transferable vote system. The book is both apologia pro vita sua and mea culpa. The most sensible, honest and meaningful sentence in the whole book comes near the beginning: "Long before you were born, when your parents were still small, I was a busy MP and I did not spend as much time with them as I should have." And finally, Maya Angelou's Letter to My Daughter. Angelou does not, as it turns out, have a daughter. But then again, as she explains, "I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish-speaking, Native American and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all." Not surprisingly, the book offers appropriately catch-all wisdom along the lines of "Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud", "Never whine" and "If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking." Some of the advice, though, is delightfully odd and unique: "If the emperor is standing in my living room stripped to the buff, nothing should prevent me from saying that since he has no clothes on, he is not ready for public congress. At any rate, not lounging on my sofa and munching on my trail mix." I have no idea at all what this might mean, but I have adopted it as a mantra. Brown might perhaps seek consolation of his own in Angelou's letter on "National Spirit": "Politicians must set their aims for the high ground." High ideals. Cold comfort. Ian Sansom's Mobile Library novels are published by HarperPerennial. To order Notes to My Mother-in-law for pounds 11.99, Letters to My Grandchildren for pounds 17.99 or Letter to My Daughter for pounds 11.99, all with free UK p&p, call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846. Caption: article-letters.1 Finally, Maya Angelou's Letter to My Daughter. Angelou does not, as it turns out, have a daughter. But then again, as she explains, "I have thousands of daughters. You are Black and White, Jewish and Muslim, Asian, Spanish-speaking, Native American and Aleut. You are fat and thin and pretty and plain, gay and straight, educated and unlettered, and I am speaking to you all." Not surprisingly, the book offers appropriately catch-all wisdom along the lines of "Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud", "Never whine" and "If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking." Some of the advice, though, is delightfully odd and unique: "If the emperor is standing in my living room stripped to the buff, nothing should prevent me from saying that since he has no clothes on, he is not ready for public congress. At any rate, not lounging on my sofa and munching on my trail mix." I have no idea at all what this might mean, but I have adopted it as a mantra. [Gordon Brown] might perhaps seek consolation of his own in Angelou's letter on "National Spirit": "Politicians must set their aims for the high ground." High ideals. Cold comfort. - Ian Sansom.