John’s letters to Mary symbolize her loss of vulnerability due to grief. While the letters contain evidence of Mary’s past vulnerability with John, who was her lover before and during World War I, they also represent the way her grief impedes her ability to trust again. John’s letters depict Mary as a vulnerable young woman, far removed from the closed-off personality that the protagonist (Mary’s nephew) knows. Remembering the summer day at Ballycastle when they first kissed, John describes Mary’s open, trusting body language. He remembers her shirt that “opened down the back,” “the clean nape of [her] neck,” and the way she lay beside him with her “hair undone.” These intimate moments soften Mary’s normal austerity, revealing parts of herself that she usually conceals. Additionally, the final letter, in which John breaks up with her to become a monk, reveals that she is capable of being hurt. In this way, the letters carry evidence of Mary’s vulnerability as a young woman.
Years later, the letters, and the bureau that holds them, come to represent Mary’s unprocessed grief and inability to trust her family. By locking the letters away in the bureau, Mary literally keeps her family members from seeing the evidence of her vulnerability. The frail rubber band that contains the letters shows that even Mary herself does not frequently revisit this vulnerability, as it’s lost its elasticity with disuse. For this reason, the bureau’s organized interior, “divided into pigeon-holes, all bulging with papers,” mirrors Mary’s emotional interior: she compartmentalizes her grief about her failed relationship into a “pigeon-hole” in her mind just as she compartmentalizes John’s letters, ignoring it rather than sorting through it. But this mental state is precarious, since her emotions, like the letters, “bulge” out of their “pigeon-holes,” ready to spill out at the slightest provocation. Thus, when the protagonist betrays her trust, he triggers Mary’s volatile emotions, causing the letters to “[spring] out in an untidy heap.” In the final scene, the protagonist’s mother burns the letters, thereby symbolically freeing Mary from her unprocessed grief in death.
The Letters Quotes in Secrets
He reached over towards the letters but before his hand touched them his aunt’s voice, harsh for once, warned.
“A-A-A,” she moved her pen from side to side. “Do not touch,” she said and smiled. “Anything else, yes! That section, no!” She resumed her writing.
My love, it is thinking of you that keeps me sane. When I get a moment I open my memories of you as if I were reading. Your long dark hair—I always imagine you wearing the blouse with the tiny roses, the white one that opened down the back—your eyes that said so much without words, the way you lowered your head when I said anything that embarrassed you, the clean nape of your neck.
The only emotion I have experienced lately is one of anger. Sheer white trembling anger. I have no pity or sorrow for the dead and injured. I thank God it is not me but I am enraged that it had to be them. If I live through this experience I will be a different person.
I have been thinking a lot as I lie here about the war and about myself and about you. I do not know how to say this but I feel deeply that I must do something, must sacrifice something to make up for the horror of the past year. In some strange way Christ has spoken to me through the carnage.
“You have been reading my letters,” she said quietly. Her mouth was tight with the words and her eyes blazed. The boy could say nothing. She struck him across the side of the face.
“Get out,” she said. “Get out of my room.”
The boy, the side of his face stinging and red, put the keys on the table on his way out. When he reached the door she called him. He stopped, his hand on the handle.
“You are dirt,” she hissed, “and always will be dirt. I shall remember this till the day I die.”