If I loved all the world as I do you, I shouldn't write books to

“If I loved all the world as I do you, I shouldn’t write books to it: I should only write letters to it, and that would be only a clumsy stage on the way to entire telepathy.” So wrote Laurence Housman, giving voice to the mystery of love’s intimacy. In these words, he reveals the difference between the love we give the world and the love we give to the beloved. Books are written to all, letters to one, but when love reaches its highest form, even letters become unnecessary—he imagines a communion so deep it surpasses words, a kind of telepathy of the heart.

To love the world is noble, but it is broad and impersonal. The writer casts his thoughts into books, offering them to many, hoping they will land where they are needed. But to love one person deeply is to desire not the distance of books but the nearness of whispers, the immediacy of a letter. And when the bond grows still stronger, words themselves feel clumsy, unable to carry the weight of affection. The beloved becomes so close that one longs for a union beyond speech, a direct knowing, heart to heart, spirit to spirit.

This longing for wordless communion is not new. In the dialogues of Plato, Socrates spoke of love’s ladder—beginning with physical attraction, ascending through admiration of the soul, and reaching finally to contemplation of the eternal. At the highest stage, language falls away, for truth and love are grasped directly. Housman’s words echo this philosophy, suggesting that when love is deepest, writing itself feels inadequate, a pale shadow of the communion one desires.

History offers us vivid examples. Think of Rainer Maria Rilke’s letters to Lou Andreas-Salomé, filled with tenderness, philosophy, and longing. Each letter strains against its own form, trying to leap beyond ink and paper into the realm of presence. Their correspondence shows the same tension Housman describes: words both unite and separate, a bridge and yet also a reminder of distance. What lovers truly yearn for is not correspondence, but closeness so profound that no medium is required.

To call letters “a clumsy stage” is not to despise them, but to recognize their limitation. For when one is aflame with love, even the most carefully chosen words fail to match the intensity of the feeling. The romantic spirit longs for immediacy: to look into the beloved’s eyes and know their thought without speech, to feel their presence like a second pulse within one’s chest. This is the dream of telepathy, not in a supernatural sense, but as a metaphor for love’s desire to erase all barriers.

The lesson here is clear: treasure words, but do not mistake them for the essence of love. Books, letters, even poetry are noble vessels, but the wine they carry is greater still. Seek to write, yes, but seek also to live in such a way that your love is felt without needing constant explanation. In silence, in gestures, in presence, the truth of love speaks louder than a thousand words.

Therefore, dear listener, carry Housman’s wisdom with you: love the world through your work, but love the beloved with the nearness of your soul. Write books to many, but letters to the few who matter most. And when words falter, let your actions, your gaze, your very being become the language of love. For the greatest romance is not spoken, but lived in such intimacy that hearts converse without sound, and souls are bound beyond the reach of time.