Michael: Alright Kevin, quick pop quiz. If you had to write a letter that would change the world, what would the first line be? Kevin: Oh, easy. "Dear World, Please find my lost keys. Sincerely, A Man Who Can't Leave His Apartment." How's that for historical impact? Michael: I think we can aim a little higher. But that's exactly what we're talking about today—the incredible, world-altering power packed into simple pieces of paper. Kevin: I'm guessing the letters we're discussing today are a bit more significant than my plea for lost keys. Michael: Just a bit. We're diving into Written in History: Letters That Changed the World by Simon Sebag Montefiore. And Montefiore is the perfect guide for this. He's not just a stuffy academic; he's a master storyteller, widely acclaimed for making these huge historical figures feel intensely human. Kevin: Right, he makes history feel less like a textbook and more like a high-stakes drama. Which is exactly what we love. So, where do we start? With love letters or battle plans? Michael: Let's start where they collide: with love letters that became political dynamite. This book argues that letters capture what the poet Goethe called "the immediate breath of life," and sometimes that breath is a fire that burns down the old world.

Kevin: I love that. "The immediate breath of life." It’s so much more visceral than just calling it a primary source. So, whose fiery breath are we talking about first? Michael: We're going back to the 1520s, to a king who is absolutely desperate: Henry VIII of England. He needs a male heir, his wife Catherine of Aragon can't provide one, and he has become completely obsessed with a charismatic, intelligent lady-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn. Kevin: Ah, the classic workplace romance that spirals way out of control. But Anne Boleyn wasn't just playing along, was she? Michael: Not at all. She was brilliant. She refused to be his mistress, holding out for the crown. This drove Henry mad with desire. And he poured all of that frustration, obsession, and longing into a series of letters to her. These aren't just sweet nothings; they are raw, needy, and politically explosive. Kevin: Give me an example. What does a desperate king sound like on paper? Michael: He writes things like, "My heart and I surrender ourselves into your hands," and he complains of the "great pangs of absence." He’s basically the King of England begging for a sign of affection. But here’s the crucial part: to get Anne, he needs to annul his marriage to Catherine. The Pope, for complex political reasons, refuses. Kevin: Wait, so you're telling me the entire English Reformation, the break with the Roman Catholic Church, the establishment of the Church of England... it all hinges on these incredibly thirsty letters from a king to a woman who was playing hard to get? Michael: That's the chain of events. His personal desire, captured in these letters, forced a political and religious revolution. The letters are the evidence of the motive. They weren't just personal documents; they became the engine for reshaping a nation's faith and destiny. It’s a perfect example of how an intimate exchange can have earth-shattering public consequences. Kevin: That is absolutely wild. It reframes a massive historical event as a story of personal obsession. It’s not a dry political dispute; it’s a drama. Michael: Exactly. And if Henry's letters show passion leading to political chaos, the book gives us another incredible example where passion and politics were perfectly, and powerfully, aligned. Let's jump to 18th-century Russia, with Catherine the Great. Kevin: Another legendary ruler. What was her story? Michael: Catherine was an empress in a precarious position, needing a partner who was not just a lover but a co-ruler in spirit and intellect. She found him in Grigory Potemkin, a brilliant and wildly ambitious statesman. Their letters are one of the most remarkable correspondences in history. Kevin: How so? Were they different from Henry's? Michael: Completely. There was deep, genuine passion, but it was fused with statecraft. One moment they're using pet names and talking like lovers, and the next they're strategizing the expansion of the Russian Empire into Ukraine and the annexation of Crimea. Their letters are a seamless blend of pillow talk and geopolitical strategy. Kevin: Wow. So they were the ultimate power couple. Their letters are like a mashup of a national security briefing and a secret diary. Michael: That’s a perfect way to put it. They called each other "my dove" and "my golden pheasant" while discussing military tactics and colonial policy. Their partnership, forged and maintained through this constant flow of letters, literally redrew the map of Europe. It demonstrates how letters can be the connective tissue for building an empire, not just expressing personal feelings. Kevin: It’s fascinating that the book received such positive reviews for this kind of storytelling, but some readers have pointed out that they wish they could read the full letters, not just the excerpts Montefiore provides. I can see why. You get a taste of this incredible dynamic and you just want more. Michael: That’s a fair point. The book is an anthology, a highlights reel. But what a reel it is. It shows that in the hands of the powerful, a pen could be as mighty as a sword.

Kevin: Okay, so we’ve seen letters as weapons, as tools for empire-building. That’s the grand, sweeping history. But what about the other side of it? The book isn't just about power, right? Michael: Right. And this is where the emotional core of the collection really shines. The book shows the immense public power of letters, but it also reveals their private power to capture something incredibly fragile and human. It’s that "immediate breath of life" in a moment of total despair. Kevin: Where are we going for this story? Michael: To a much quieter, more tragic place. England in the early 1950s. We're talking about Alan Turing. Kevin: The father of modern computing. The man who broke the Enigma code and helped win World War II. A certified genius. Michael: The very same. But in 1952, this national hero was prosecuted for "gross indecency." His crime was being gay, which was illegal. As a condition of his probation, to avoid prison, he was forced to undergo what was called "chemical castration"—injections of female hormones. Kevin: That's just barbaric. It’s hard to even comprehend that level of cruelty being sanctioned by the state. Michael: It was devastating. The treatment left him physically and mentally shattered. And in the midst of this, he wrote a letter to his friend, a fellow mathematician named Norman Routledge. This letter is one of the most heartbreaking things in the entire collection. Kevin: What does it say? Michael: It's written in this almost cheerful, chatty tone on the surface, but the horror is just beneath. He talks about his trial and the treatment, and then he writes about a recurring nightmare he’s having. He says, "The sun is getting larger and larger in the sky, and also hotter and hotter. I am not the only person who is frightened, but I am the one who has to do something." He then describes a fantasy of building a submarine to escape into the sea. Kevin: Wow. That’s… that’s chilling. He’s not just describing a dream; he’s describing his reality. The world is becoming hostile, unbearable, and he feels this immense pressure, this desperate need to escape. Michael: Exactly. The letter is a window directly into his suffering. It's the authentic voice of a brilliant mind being systematically dismantled by an ignorant and prejudiced system. There’s no political maneuvering here. There’s no statecraft. It's just raw, human agony captured on paper. Two years later, Alan Turing was dead, an apparent suicide. Kevin: That's just devastating. It’s one thing to read about historical injustice in a textbook, but to hear it in his own words, through that haunting metaphor of the expanding sun… it makes the tragedy so much more personal and visceral. The letter isn't just a document; it's a testament to the human cost. Michael: It is. And it perfectly illustrates the other side of the book's argument. A letter can be a declaration of war or a cry for help. It can build an empire or it can be the last record of a soul being extinguished.

Kevin: So when you put those two sides together—the political power of Henry VIII's letters and the personal pain in Alan Turing's—you get a really profound picture of what this form of communication meant. Michael: That's the paradox the book reveals so beautifully. A letter can be a tool to build an empire or a final, desperate cry from a soul being crushed. They are both monuments to power and memorials to pain. They capture what the writer John Donne meant when he said, "letters mingle souls." For better or for worse. Kevin: It really makes you wonder what we're losing in the digital age. Our digital trails are vast, but are they authentic in the same way? Do our emails and texts have that same weight, that same potential to "mingle souls"? Michael: It's a huge question. The speed of our communication is incredible, but we may have lost the solitude and reflection that Lord Byron said made letter writing "the only device combining solitude and good company." We type and send in an instant. There’s less deliberation, less permanence. Kevin: Yeah, no one is going to carefully preserve a collection of my tweets for future generations. Maybe that's for the best. But it feels like we're losing a specific kind of historical and emotional record. Michael: I think so. Montefiore’s book is a celebration of what might be a dying art. It’s a museum of these powerful, intimate moments. It leaves you asking a really important question: what memorial are we leaving behind? Kevin: That’s a heavy thought to end on, but a powerful one. It makes you want to go write a real letter to someone. Michael: Maybe you should. We'd actually love to hear what our listeners think. What's a letter—real or imagined—that has meant something to you? Find us on our socials and share your story. We’d love to read them. Kevin: A great idea. Let's bring a little bit of that old-world connection back. Michael: This is Aibrary, signing off.