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Antwerp
1 November 1516
My dear Busleiden,
The other day a great friend of yours, Thomas More —who is, I'm sure you'll agree, one of the glories of our age—sent me the enclosed account of Utopia. At present very few people know about this island, but everyone should want to, for it's like Plato's Republic, only better —especially as it's described by such a talented author. He sets it all so vividly before one's eyes that by reading his words I seem to get an even clearer picture of it than I did while Raphael Nonsenso's voice was actually sounding in my ears—for I was with More when the conversation took place. And yet Raphael spoke extraordinarily well. He obviously wasn't retailing somebody else's story, but describing his own experiences in a place where he'd lived for quite a long time. Personally, I think he must have seen even more of the world than Ulysses, and I doubt if there has been anyone like him for at least eight hundred years. He made us feel that Vespucci had seen absolutely nothing!
The man also appeared to have a special talent for exposition—though I suppose we can always describe what we've seen more effectively than what we've heard. But when I consider More's quasi-pictorial treatment of the same theme, I sometimes get the impression that I'm actually living in Utopia. In fact, I honestly believe there's more to be seen in his account of the island than Raphael himself can have seen during all those five years that he spent there. One comes across so many wonderful things on every page, that I hardly know what to admire first or most—the remarkable accuracy of his memory, which could reproduce an immensely long speech practically word for word—his cleverness in immediately grasping the actual and potential causes, hitherto largely unknown, of every social evil—or the force and fluency of his style, his ability to deal with such a variety of topics in such correct and muscular Latin—especially as he's distracted by so many official and domestic responsibilities. But all this will seem less surprising to a fine scholar like you. Besides, you already know him intimately, and are quite familiar with the prodigious, if not positively superhuman power of his intellect.
I can't think of anything to add to what he has written—except that I've attached four lines of verse in the Utopian language, which Nonsenso happened to show me after More had gone, together with the Utopian alphabet. I've also added a few marginal notes. By the way, More's a bit worried because he doesn't know the exact position of the island. As a matter of fact Raphael did mention it, but only very briefly and incidentally, as though he meant to return to the question later—and, for some unknown reason, we were both fated to miss it. You see, just as Raphael was touching on the subject, a servant came up to More and whispered something in his ear. And although this made me listen with even greater attention, at the critical moment one of his colleagues started coughing rather loudly—I suppose he'd caught cold on the boat—so that the rest of Raphael's sentence was completely inaudible. However, I shan't rest until I've cleared up that point too, and can tell you exactly where the island is, latitude and all. That is, if our friend Raphael is still safe and sound, for I've heard several different stories about him. Some people say that he has died somewhere on his travels. Others that he has gone back to his own country. Others again that he has returned to Utopia, partly because he felt nostalgic about it, and partly because he couldn't stand the way Europeans behaved.
You may wonder why no reference to Utopia appears in any geographical work, but this problem has been very neatly solved by Raphael himself. He says it's quite possible that the ancients knew of the island under another name, or else that they never heard of it at all—for nowadays countries are always being discovered which were never mentioned in the old geography books. However, I need no arguments to prove my point, when I can appeal to the authority of a man like More.
I understand and respect the modesty that makes him hesitate to publish. Personally, though, I think it's the sort of work that should on no account be suppressed for long, but should be put into circulation as quickly as possible, preferably with a letter from you to recommend it to the world—because you have a special insight into More's genius, and who could be better qualified to introduce sound ideas to the public than one who has spent many years in the public service and earned the highest praise for his wisdom and integrity?
With all good wishes to a great patron of scholarship, who is also among the glories of this age,
Yours sincerely,
PETER GILLES