"Until quite recently I was only dimly aware of your existence."

This is the opening sentence of a letter, addressed to "Dear America," which came to us recently from one of our overseas readers, a Danish woman journalist who is married to an Armenian and lives in Greece. She continues:

"I did know that there was a strange land across the seas where they spoke some sort of English in rather an odd accent. I knew that the inhabitants of this vague country performed marriages on flagpoles. But apart from that you did not count. England was the country that all we Europeans loved and admired. We clothed our bodies in British clothes and fed our minds with the words of British intellectuals. It was smart to read British newspapers, and we sincerely enjoyed such nice magazines as Nash's and the Strand. If we did see some American newspapers, we would look at them suspiciously and leave them to those strange Europeans who had been to the States and had caught a touch of madness.

"There was that place called New York. It meant nothing to us. We had London, foggy old London, birthplace of Oliver Twist and Sherlock Holmes. We asked for no more.

"Then the war finished and almost overnight everything had gone American in Europe. How did it happen? I really don't know. But there I was, walking the streets and seeing America everywhere: shops full of nylon products, American toothpaste, American combs, Kleenex, candies, everything gaily coloured and smartly wrapped up. The newsstands were full of American papers, a Sunday edition about as big as a hundred European newspapers rolled into one, gay comics put up with clothespegs, stacks of magazines, stacks of books. I looked everywhere for an English magazine and found, tucked away in a corner, the Strand. I couldn't believe my own eyes. I did not know what had happened to it or to the world, it looked so poor, so thin and shabby. I bought, but not without misgivings, the huge Sunday edition, some comics for my children, and a strange-looking newsmagazine called TIME. Still, I was sad and disappointed; those papers felt unfamiliar in my hands. When I came home I put them on my table and cocked a suspicious eye at them . . .

"I would not say that I have forgotten England. But those papers, especially that TIME, have some sort of something. It gives me a delicious sense of freedom to read them--in fact, it gives me wings . .

"You are, almost, a paradise on earth. Look at the department stores, the skyscrapers, the jukeboxes, the subway, Broadway, Coney Island. I can't think of any other place where you might so successfully forget that you are only a weak human being. After all, forgetting that you are weak and that nature is treacherous is the secret of a happy life.

"Speaking about your newspapers, I did not know what I was in for when I began buying your comics for my children. At all times of the day my five-year-old son will poke one of them in my face and ask me to explain it to him ... It seems crazy from the beginning. How am I to explain this mad whirlwind of animals rushing about in cars, getting entangled in telephone wires, or being blown to bits by explosives?

"By the time we have got through five or six of them I am clutching my hair and muttering under my breath. It always ends the same way. I will throw the comics on the floor and give up. Yet every day the little rascal will take out his stack of comics and pore over" them for hours. Heaven knows what he makes out of them. He enjoys them immensely . . .

"When I read articles in your papers glorifying grocers or restaurant owners who have earned fortunes and now live in luxury surrounded by valuable paintings and antiques, I always rub my eyes and read them once more to be quite sure that I am not dreaming. How amazingly good-natured you are toward the new-rich. It seems a wonder to Europeans that you do not grudge such people their money . . .

"Almost everything in your papers makes me feel fine, except when you write in them that your inhabitants must eat less and spend less on luxuries. Don't you realize what it means to us in Europe to hear about your beautifully heated houses, your electric kitchens and refrigerators, the warm water flowing freely from faucets, your full larders, your pockets full of money, your lovely, spoiled women? What would we do if we did not have this land of milk and honey to read about and dream about? Please go on living the way you are used to ...

"Well, this is all I had to say. I did not like you in the beginning, but having got to know you is a tremendous experience. You have completely won my heart, thanks to that odd-looking newsmagazine called TIME."

This letter expresses a viewpoint that I have seldom seen in print. I hope that you found it as unique and interesting as I did.

Cordially yours,

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.