Your little pig found his way to Enfield this morning without his feet, or rather his little feet came first, and as I guessed the rest of him soon followed. He is quite a beauty. It was a pity to kill him, or rather, as Rice would say, it would have been a pity not to kill him in his state of innocence.
I would always park at a LOADING ZONE sign and tell them “It’s okay, because we are going to get loaded” and off we’d pile into the Ritz to drink 3 or 4 or 2 martinis…often, very often, Sylvia and I would talk at length about our first suicides, at length, in detail, in depth—between the free potato chips.
I have your letter this morning & want to thank you profoundly for your telegram & for the money—& for your kind support generally. The money has averted a nasty situation. Your warmth and interest contribute highly to my welfare…
The holiest act is to create, to bring more things into existence.
The most charming of all gifts is that of being able to express one’s thoughts with elegance; it will often supply the place of wit even for those who have none…
He eats stony apples, and harbours designs upon his fellow-creatures until he has become light-headed. From the couch rendered uneasy by this disorder he has arisen with an excessively protuberant forehead, a dull slow eye, a complexion of a leaden hue, and a croaky voice. He has become a horror to me…
Below, Samuel Johnson writes to close friend James Elphinston, whose mother had recently passed. “I read the letters in which you relate your mother’s death to Ms. Strahan,” confides Johnson, “and I think I do myself honour, when I tell you … Continued
What is a murderer’s conscience compared to the stinking dung pit in the back of my head?
Indeed I am grieved on your account that I am not at the same time happy—But I conjure you to think at Present of nothing but pleasure—“Gather the rose, etc.”—gorge the honey of life.
It doubtless seems somewhat strange that I am writing you, since (in the greatness of your generosity) you have given me the possibility of seeing you so often. But always in your presence I feel the imperfection of my language like a sickness that separates me from you even at the moment when I am very near.