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John Deere sent Mother Earth a Dear John letter as he prepared to shred more of her children.

Or don't you like to write letters. I do because it's such a swell way to keep from working and yet feel you've done something.

A man who publishes his letters becomes a nudist -- nothing shields him from the world's gaze except his bare skin. A writer, writing away, can always fix himself up to make himself more presentable, but a man who has written a letter is stuck with it for all time.

There are certain people whom one feels almost inclined to urge to hurry up and die so that their letters can be published.

Dear Mr. Bush, In response to head weapons inspector David Kay's statement that he believes there are and were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq (Associated Press), you are quoted as saying, There is no doubt in my mind that Saddam Hussein was a grave and gathering threat to America and the world is better off without him. My beloved son Brian died for your red herring in the sand. He was an honorable, restrained, talented, caring man, and the world would be better off with him alive and well. He resigned his commission in the Illinois National Guard when assigned to duty in Iraq as a matter of conscience. He served nonetheless, and he bled for 1/2 hour in the desert sand before any help arrived, though the helicopter he was flying was only 5 minutes off the ground when it crashed, according to witnesses. After his death, I received two letters from him telling me he hoped to be home in April, 2004. On Christmas day I visited his grave. He did not give his life. It was cruelly taken from him by your rush to war -- against the United Nations, old allies like France and Germany, western religions' Just War Doctrine, the entire Arab world, and most civilized nations. You inherited peace and prosperity and created murder, mayhem, and massive debt. According to the ongoing investigation of the helicopter crash that took Brian's and 15 other American lives, the Illinois National Guard aircraft were sent into the field without basic survivability equipment, to accommodate your shoot and bomb first, think and investigate later brand of foreign policy. We don't need a trigger happy president. Finders keepers, losers weepers. While we who have lost our loved ones have only tears to fill the empty space where love and laughter lived, you and your Halliburton cronies have found the oil wells and will undoubtedly keep your blood stained gains. Our sorrow, your gain. Brian was conscientious; someone wasn't. Brian was faithful; someone wasn't. Brian was thoughtful; someone wasn't. Brian was considerate; someone wasn't. Brian was truthful; someone isn't. Brian wasn't sloppy. Someone is. Sincerely, Rosemarie Dietz Slavenas.

If you are in doubt whether to write a letter or not, don't. And the advice applies to many doubts in life besides that of letter writing.

Chain letters are the postal equivalent of intestinal flu: you get it and pass it along to your friends.

A man who publishes his letters becomes a nudist--nothing shields him from the world's gaze except his bare skin. A writer, writing away, can always fix himself up to make himself more presentable, but a man who has written a letter is stuck with it for all time.

A woman seldom writes her mind but in her postscript.

Correspondences are like smallclothes before the invention of suspenders; it is impossible to keep them up.