Hi. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Oprah, but I figure since I’ve been writing to you for thirteen years, have seen all your movies (including ‘The Women of Brewster Place’, but I assume you got my letter about how that movie changed my life -I spit on every cut now), buy every book you tell me to, subscribe to your magazine, give subscriptions out as Christmas presents, and endorsed you for President (even though I suspect that you are a Republican, not that I wouldn’t switch parties if I thought that would please you) it would be alright if I addressed you in the familiar.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing to you this time is I just wondered what I did to anger you. What have I ever done but admire you and aspire to someday have you adopt me?
I mean, I have racked my brain for the last few hours since finally finishing Anna Karenina, and I cannot figure out why you would do that to me.
To say that the book sucked, would not really capture the irritation of wondering how Tolstoy could still have 81 pages left after the title character has been crushed to death. It hardly seems fair that she should escape the misery of her own tome, while the reader suffers through yet more mundane explorations of European agricultural philosophy.
Why would you force me to walk back and forth with that 850 page book when you knew how awful it was? And I know you knew, no good novel would mention Schopenhauer in passing. No, no this was some sort of medieval punishment, but I can’t for the life of me imagine for what.
Now, I know you have never responded to any of my letters before (or read them on the air), but I hope you answer this one, so that I can know my transgression and avoid upsetting you in the future.
I hope you, Stedman and your dogs are all well. You look fantastic by the way, this season has been one your best.
Thank you for your time and consideration,
P.S. As always I would love an autographed picture if you could send me one. Thanks!