Monday, December 24, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Monday, November 19, 2012
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Friday, November 16, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Poem: September 1, 1939 by W.H. Auden/ Separated at Birth The Thing & W.H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.
Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Ned Vizzini -The Proust Questionnaire
Ned Vizzini is the author of four books. His writing career, which is very reminiscent of film director Cameron Crowe's, began at the age of fifteen with the New York Press. From that auspiscious start, Ned has gone on to write for the New York Times, The L Magazine, and The Daily Beast. His second novel It's Kind of a Funny Story was adapted into a
film in 2010 that starred Zack Galifianakis. His latest novel,The
Other Normals, concerns fifteen-year-old Peregrine "Perry"
Eckert who's shipped off to summer camp by his parents because of an
obsession with the "epic role playing game" Creatures &
Caverns. (keep an eye out for upcoming review at this blog) In addition to writing novels and non-fiction, he's also written for the television shows Teen Wolf (season 2) and currently for the ABC drama Last Resort. For everything Ned Vizzini, check out his home page HERE
Below, are his answers to the Proust Questionnaire.
1. What is your idea of
perfect happiness?
Doing great writing and seeing it materially benefit my family
2. What is your greatest
fear?
Doing bad writing and falling into isolated self-hate
3. What is the trait you
most deplore in yourself?
Procrastination
4. What is the trait you
most deplore in others?
Thinking that they can
insult me casually and I'll find it cute
5. Which living person
do you most admire?
Dennis Tito, the world's
first space tourist
6. What is your greatest
extravagance?
My addiction to the book-sharing website Bookmooch, where I spend about $100 a year (and lots of time) sending free books to people in Australia and Iran
7. What is your current
state of mind?
I'm in a decent state of
mind, or I wouldn't be doing this interview
8. What do you consider
the most overrated virtue?
Patience
9. On what occasion do
you lie?
When I need to protect my interests
10. What do you most
dislike about your appearance?
My double chin
11. Which living person
do you most despise?
Myself, in occassional bursts.
12. What is the quality
you most like in a man?
Self-deprecation
13. What is the quality
you most like in a woman?
Problem-solving
14. Which words or
phrases do you most overuse?
"it's kind of"
15. What or who is the
greatest love of your life?
My wife, of course
16. When and where were
you happiest?
I achieved pure happiness when I drank a Coke in the snow when I was nine in Park Slope, Brooklyn
17. Which talent would
you most like to have?
Spur-of-the-moment wit
18. If you could change
one thing about yourself, what would it be?
Stop reflexively putting my hand in my pants like Al Bundy
19. What do you consider
your greatest achievement?
My books
20. If you were to die
and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?
I would come back as an armadillo, because they sleep for 20 hours a day, and catch up on sleep
21. Where would you most
like to live?
Vizzini, Sicily
22. What is your most
treasured possession?
My Sony Vaio laptop
23. What do you regard
as the lowest depth of misery?
Vomiting up a salad leaf and trying to eat it
24. What is your
favorite occupation?
Honestly? Cleaning the house, with my 17-month-old son helping out
25. What is your most
marked characteristic?
"teen angst"
26. What do you most
value in your friends?
Understanding
27. Who are your
favorite writers?
Michael Crichton, George Orwell, Brian Jacques
28. Who is your hero of
fiction?
Vladimir Grishkin inThe Russian Debutante's Handbook
29. Which historical
figure do you most identify with?
The Ramones
30. Who are your heroes
in real life?
Michael Crichton, George Orwell, Brian Jacques
31. What are your
favorite names?
Perry, Saul, Dean,
Timber, Lionel, Warwick, Craig
32. What is it that you
most dislike?
Failure of effort
33. What is your
greatest regret?
This UK television interview I missed in 2009
34. How would you like
to die?
35. What is your motto?
"Always be aware of the consequences of negative behavior" -- inspired by H.H. The Dalai Lama and his book The Art of Happiness
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Monday, October 29, 2012
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Sylvia Plath's Birthday
For a Fatherless Son by Sylvia Plath
Growing beside you, like a tree,
A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree ---
Balding, gelded by lightning--an illusion,
And a sky like a pig's backside, an utter lack of attention.
But right now you are dumb.
And I love your stupidity,
The blind mirror of it. I look in
And find no face but my own, and you think that's funny.
It is good for me
To have you grab my nose, a ladder rung.
One day you may touch what's wrong ---
The small skulls, the smashed blue hills, the godawful hush.
Till then your smiles are found money.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Scott McClanahan Interview @ Oxford American
"If you look at the writing of my peers, I mean the people I’m surrounded by, they’re still writing like Thomas Pynchon or David Foster Wallace. I’m trying to pull it back from this 'prog-rock' and just give you a fucking two minute song, in your face. Don’t like that one? Bam! Here’s another one. Don’t like that one? Bam! Here’s another one. And to look at it that way."
Read the Scott McClanahan Interview HERE
Monday, October 1, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
Marc Nesbitt
I just recently learned that Marc Nesbitt, author of the acclaimed short story collection Gigantic is fighting a brain tumor. He's in the process of one last cycle of chemo. He has not been able to work and needs help.
To help, visit the website that was launched by his brother here: http://www.marcnesbitt.com/
You could also buy Gigantic at Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/Gigantic-Marc-Nesbitt/dp/0802139639
And here is the title story from his collection at the New Yorker: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2001/07/09/010709fi_fiction
You could also buy Gigantic at Amazon here: http://www.amazon.com/Gigantic-Marc-Nesbitt/dp/0802139639
And here is the title story from his collection at the New Yorker: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2001/07/09/010709fi_fiction
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
In Defense of Kerouac
Here is novelist Danny Lanzetta in defense of On the Road and Jack Kerouac:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/danny-lanzetta/defending-jack-kerouac-an_b_1797698.html?utm_hp_ref=books
I don't know why people have to talk shit about Jack Kerouac. On the Road is a book full of love. It's about friendships and how they change as the world changes and how everyone you love eventually recedes from your life: "What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?-it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by."
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/danny-lanzetta/defending-jack-kerouac-an_b_1797698.html?utm_hp_ref=books
I don't know why people have to talk shit about Jack Kerouac. On the Road is a book full of love. It's about friendships and how they change as the world changes and how everyone you love eventually recedes from your life: "What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing?-it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-by."
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
And the days are not full enough By Ezra Pound
And
the days are not full enough
And
the nights are not full enough
And
life slips by like a field mouse
Not
shaking the grass
Ezra Pound
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
THE GREATEST LITERARY TAG TEAMS: IF I FORGOT ANY, LEAVE A COMMENT
From top, left to right: Ulysses Lima & Arturo Belano from The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano; Raoul Duke & Dr. Gonzo from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson; Neal Cassidy & Sal Paradise from On the Road by Jack Kerouac; The Infernal Spouse (Paul Verlaine) & Foolish Virgin (Arthur Rimbaud ) from A Season in Hell by Arthur Rimbaud; Sancho Panza & Don Quixote from Don Quixote.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Good Artist Versus Bad Artist
“Pain
doesn’t make anything, nor does poverty. The artist is there first.
What becomes of him depends upon his luck. If his luck is good
(worldly-speaking) he becomes a bad artist. If his luck is bad, he
becomes a good one.”
Friday, April 20, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
For Ana, the blond Venezuelan girl who looked liked Jewel and went to Miami-Dade College in the mid to late 90s. Also, she used to wait for the bus...
For Ana, the blond Venezuelan girl who looked liked Jewel and went to Miami-Dade College in the mid to late 90s. Also, she used to wait for the bus with me and I used to tell her jokes, but she had a boyfriend so we never consumated.
It wasn't meant to be.
No happy ending or delicate speech.
There was no Romance,
No elegance.
South American elegance? Maybe. Si. Tal Vez.
There was no sacrifice either.
J.M. Hazan 96
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
A really bad, bilingual poem dedicated to Pampita Ardohain
Marry me Pampita
I don't care if you're already married or have one baby or three babies or 12 thousand babies and your vagina is ripped and torn from so much birth.
Marry me Pampita, y te doy la luna como que si fuera un globo amarillo
marry me please Pampita and open your legs on our honeymoon and embrace me like Jesus come back from the dead.
CASATE conmigo Pampita and I'll give you...the keys to my Yaris.
Pampita, marry me mi Amor, for love like ours is once in a lifetime and if you don't I will be forced to spend all the rest of my days on pornhhub.
PAMPITA, dame to sonrisa, y te dare mi corazon como que si fuera el motor del mundo porque sin el todo para..
[PAMPITA, give me your smiles, and I will give you my heart like if it was the engine of the world because without it everything stops.]
PAMPITA, Mi CA-RO-LI-NA, tu nombre....me recuerda the Nabokov:
Pampita, luz de mi vida, fuego de mis entrañas. Mi pecado, mi alma. Pam-Pit-ta: la punta de la lengua emprende un viaje de tres pasospaladar abajo hasta apoyarse, en el tercero, en los dientes. PAM-PI-TA
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Whitney Houston R.I.P.
"There are some men that enter a woman's life and screw it up forever."
-Janet Evanovich-
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Lower Eastside Poem by Miguel Pinero
Just once before I die
I want to climb up on a
tenement sky
to dream my lungs out till
I cry
then scatter my ashes thru
the Lower East Side.
So let me sing my song tonight
let me feel out of sight
and let all eyes be dry
when they scatter my ashes thru
the Lower East Side.
From Houston to 14th Street
from Second Avenue to the mighty D
here the hustlers & suckers meet
the faggots & freaks will all get
high
on the ashes that have been scattered
thru the Lower East Side.
There's no other place for me to be
there's no other place that I can see
there's no other town around that
brings you up or keeps you down
no food little heat sweeps by
fancy cars & pimps' bars & juke saloons
& greasy spoons make my spirits fly
with my ashes scattered thru the
Lower East Side . . .
A thief, a junkie I've been
committed every known sin
Jews and Gentiles . . . Bums & Men
of style . . . run away child
police shooting wild . . .
mother's futile wails . . . pushers
making sales . . . dope wheelers
& cocaine dealers . . . smoking pot
streets are hot & feed off those who bleed to death . . .
all that's true
all that's true
all that is true
but this ain't no lie
when I ask that my ashes be scattered thru
the Lower East Side.
So here I am, look at me
I stand proud as you can see
pleased to be from the Lower East
a street fighting man
a problem of this land
I am the Philosopher of the Criminal Mind
a dweller of prison time
a cancer of Rockefeller's ghettocide
this concrete tomb is my home
to belong to survive you gotta be strong
you can't be shy less without request
someone will scatter your ashes thru
the Lower East Side.
I don't wanna be buried in Puerto Rico
I don't wanna rest in Long Island Cemetery
I wanna be near the stabbing shooting
gambling fighting & unnatural dying
& new birth crying
so please when I die . . .
don't take me far away
keep me near by
take my ashes and scatter them thru out
the Lower East Side .
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Got a mad crunch on this forehead
I
GACELA DEL AMOR IMPREVISTO
Nadie comprendía el perfume
de la oscura magnolia de tu vientre.
Nadie sabía que martirizabas
un colibrí de amor entre los dientes.
Mil caballitos persas se dormían
en la plaza con luna de tu frente,
mientras que yo enlazaba cuatro noches
tu cintura, enemiga de la nieve.
Entre yeso y jazmines, tu mirada
era un pálido ramo de simientes.
Yo busqué, para darte, por mi pecho
las letras de marfil que dicen siempre,
siempre, siempre: jardín de mi agonía,
tu cuerpo fugitivo para siempre,
la sangre de tus venas en mi boca,
tu boca ya sin luz para mi muerte.
Federico García Lorca
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Monday, January 16, 2012
"Fuck up, love! Fuck up, love!" (James Joyce's Love Letters to Nora)
To NORA
Dublin 2 December 1909
………………………….
My love for you allows me to pray to the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes or fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind, like a hog riding a sow, glorying in the very stink and sweat that rises from your arse, glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord or cadence of music or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my ballocks or stuck up in me behind and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my hands clutching the round cushions of your bum and my tongue licking ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to swoon at the hearing of my voice singing or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life and at the same time have taught you to make filthy signs to me with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes.
You are mine, darling, mine! I love you. All I have written above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over and my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard rising in tender pitiful worship of you from the dim cloisters of my heart.
Nora, my faithful darling, my seet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! My little fucking whore!) you are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark-blue rain-drenched flower.
JIM
To NORA
Dublin 3 December 1909
……………………………….
……., you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty shameless girl who first led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago down at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down down inside my trousers and pulled my shirt softly aside and touched my prick with your long tickling fingers and gradually took it all, fat and stiff as it was, into your hand and frigged me slowly until I came off through your fingers, all the time bending over me and gazing at me out of your quiet saintlike eyes. It was your lips too which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola.
Tired of lying under a man one night you tore off your chemise violently and got on top of me to ride me naked. You stuck my prick into your cunt and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you for I remember that you bent down to me face and murmured tenderly "Fuck up, love! Fuck up, love!"
Nora dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. When that person (Vincent Cosgrave) whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver put his hand or hands under your skirts did he only tickle you outside or did he put his finger or fingers up into you? If he did, did they go up far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling you and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him and did you do so? If you did not touch him did he come against you and did you feel it?
Another question, Nora. I know that I was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy (Michael Bodkin) you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now, Nora, truth for truth, honesty for honesty. When you were with him in the dark at night did your fingers never, never unbutton his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear, tell me truly or anyone else? Did you never, never, never feel a man's or a boy's prick in your fingers until you unbuttoned me? If you are not offended do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Darling, darling, tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your lips that half the redheaded louts in the county Galway had had a fuck at you before me I would still rush at you with desire.
…………………………………………………….
To NORA
Dublin 6 December 1909
………………………………..
I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills one over the other at the knees and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them, I mean not schoolgirls' drawers with a thin shabby lace border, thigh round the legs and so thin that the flesh shows with a full loose bottom and wide legs, all frills and lace and ribbons, and heavy with perfume so that whenever you show them, whether in pulling up your clothes hastily to do something or cuddling yourself up prettily to be blocked, I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills and so that when I bend down over you to open them and give you a burning lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum I can smell the perfume of your drawers as well as the warm odour of your cunt and the heavy smell of your behind.
Have I shocked you by the dirty things I wrote to you? You think perhaps that my love is a filthy thing. It is, darling, at some moments. I dream of you in filthy poses sometimes. I imagine things so very dirty that I will not write them until I see how you write yourself. The smallest things give me a great cockstand - a whorish movement of your mouth, a little brown stain on the seat of your white drawers, a sudden dirty word spluttered out by your wet lips, a sudden immodest noise made by you behind and then a bad smell slowly curling up out of your backside. At such moments I feel mad to do it in some filthy way, to feel your hot lecherous lips sucking away at me, to fuck between your two rosy-tipped bubbies, to come on your face and squirt it over your hot cheeks and eyes, to stick it between the cheeks of your rump and bugger you.
Basta per stasera!
I hope you got my telegram and understood it.
Goodbye, my darling whom I am trying to degrade and deprave. How on God's earth can you possibly love a thing like me?
O, I am anxious to get your reply, darling!
JIM
To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.
You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.
Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.
JIM
To NORA
Dublin 9 December 1909
My sweet naughty little fuckbird, Here is another note to buy pretty drawers or stockings or garters. Buy whorish drawers, love, and be sure you sprinkle the legs of them with some nice sent and also discolour them just a little behind.
You seem anxious to know how I received your letter which you say is worse than mine. How is it worse than mine, love? Yes, it is worse in one part or two. I mean the part where you say what you will do with your tongue (I don't mean sucking me off) and in that lovely word you write so big and underline, you little blackguard. It is thrilling to hear that word (and one or two others you have not written) on a girl's lips. But I wish you spoke of yourself and not of me. Write me a long long letter , full of that and other things, about yourself, darling. You know now how to give me a cockstand. Tell me the smallest things about yourself so long as they are obscene and secret and filthy. Write nothing else. Let every sentence be full of dirty immodest words and sounds. They are all lovely to hear and to see on paper even but the dirtiest are the most beautiful.
The two parts of your body which do dirty things are the loveliest to me. I prefer your arse, darling, to your bubbies because it does such a dirty thing. I love your cunt not so much because it is the part I block but because it does another dirty thing. I could lie frigging all day looking at the divine word you wrote and at the thing you said you would do with your tongue. I wish I could hear your lips spluttering those heavenly exciting filthy words, see your mouth making dirty sounds and noises, feel your body wriggling under me, hear and smell the dirty fat girlish farts going pop pop out of your pretty bare girlish bum and fuck fuck fuck fuck my naughty little hot fuckbird's cunt for ever.
I am happy now, because my little whore tells me she wants me to roger her arseways and wants me to fuck her mouth and wants to unbutton me and pull out my mickey and suck it off like a teat. More and dirtier than this she wants to do, my little naked fucker, my naughty wriggling little frigger, my sweet dirty little farter.
Goodnight, my little cuntie I am going to lie down and pull at myself until I come. Write more and dirtier, darling. Tickle your little cockey while you write to make you say worse and worse. Write the dirty words big and underline them and kiss them and hold them for a moment to your sweet hot cunt, darling, and also pull up your dress a moment and hold them under your dear little farting bum. Do more if you wish and send the letter then to me, my darling brown-arsed fuckbird.
JIM
To NORA
Dublin (?) 13 December 1909
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I would be delighted to feel my flesh tingling under your hand . Do you know what I mean, Nora dear? I wish you would smack me or flog me even. Not in play, dear, in earnest and on my naked flesh. I wish you were strong, strong, dear, and had a big full proud bosom and big fat thighs. I would love to be whipped by you, Nora love! I would love to have done something to displease you, something trivial even, perhaps one of my rather dirty habits that make you laugh: and then to hear you call me into your room and then to find you sitting in an armchair with your fat thighs far apart and your face deep red with anger and a cane in your hand. To see you point to what I had done and then with a movement of rage pull me towards you and throw me face downwards across your lap. Then to feel your hands tearing down my trousers and inside clothes and turning up my shirt, to be struggling in your strong arms and in your lap, to feel you bending down (like an angry nurse whipping a child's bottom) until your big full bubbies almost touched me and to feel you flog, flog, flog me viciously on my naked quivering flesh!!
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To NORA
Dublin 15 December 1909
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No letter! Now I am sure my girlie is offended at my filthy words. Are you offended, dear, as what I said about your drawers? That is all nonsense, darling. I know they are spotless as your hearth. I know I could lick them all over, frills, legs and bottom. Only I love in my dirty way to think that in a certain part they are soiled. It is all nonsense, too, dear, about buggering you. It is only the dirty sound of the word I like, the idea if a shy beautiful young girl like Nora pulling up her clothes behind and revealing her sweet white girlish drawers in order to excite the dirty fellow she is so fond of; and then letting him stick his dirty red lumpy pole in through the split of her drawers and up up up in the darling little hole between her plump fresh buttocks.
Darling, I came off just now in my trousers so that I am utterly played out. I cannot go to the G.P.O. though I have three letters to post.
To bed - to bed!
Goodnight, Nora mia!
JIM
To NORA
Dublin 16 December 1909
My sweet darling girl At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don't fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling as I am so small and soft now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many new ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back an pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, with your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half sleeping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand in his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.
Basta! Basta per Dio!
I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!
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Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit that kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una buona mangiata, un caffè nero, un Brasil (cigar), il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Noruccia ecc ecc...
Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!
A hundred thousand kisses, darling!
JIM
To NORA
Dublin 20 December 1909
My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up under your clothes or do you squat down on the hole with your skirts up and your hand hard at work in through the slit of your drawers? Does it give you the horn now to shit? I wonder how you can do it. Do you come in the act of shitting or do you frig yourself off first and then shit? It must be a fearfully lecherous thing to see a girl with her clothes up frigging furiously at her cunt, to see her pretty white drawers pulled open behind and her bum sticking out and a fat brown thing stuck half-way out of her hole. You say you will shit your drawers, dear, and let me fuck you then. I would like to hear you shit them, dear, first and then fuck you. Some night when we are somewhere in the dark and talking dirty and you feel your shite ready to fall put your arms round my neck in shame and shit it down softly. The sound will madden me and when I pull up your dress