“…sideløbende med og indeni min åndelige kærlighed til dig er der også en vild dyrisk hunger efter hver eneste millimeter af din krop, efter hver eneste hemmelige og skamløse del af den, efter hver eneste af dens lugte og bevægelser.”
James Joyce skriver kærlighedsbreve så det plasker ( – det bliver vildere).
Set hos information.
Én kommentar
Ask, Jeg kom endelig i tanke om hvad det var jeg skulle komme i tanke om, siden hin nat i limbo mellem den højere himmel (Charlottenborg) og det dybere hul (Understellet). Joyce's breve er da en sand fryd og en stor morskab – perfekt denne mandag morgen.
Kun én anden har jeg læst, der svinger sig op til så beskidte beskrivelser. Måske jeg nævnte det hin nat i limbo. Henry Miller i Tropic of Cancer:
"At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pil-
low I get hysterical. O Tania, where now is that warm
cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulg-
ing thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long.
I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big
with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with
an ache in your bely and your womb turned inside out.
Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but
I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you,
Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester
is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He
feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores
a little wider, I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me
you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards.
You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You
can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across
your navel. I am fucking you Tania, so that you'll stay
fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly,
I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from
your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into
your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces….