Being a writer nowadays, at this point in human history, takes courage. To spend time writing, to think you can earn a living by writing books, takes courage. He used to repeat it to himself every time he received the cancellation of one of his presentations.
Many people, in his shoes, probably would have drunk to forget the disillusion but he didn't drink. He hated drunk people. He could not understand how you can destroy yourself by drinking alcohol. Such an idiocy.
How many times his courage had changed form during the years, during all those years in which he had written books? Many times, he concluded. He remembered his Florentine season when he lived and worked in Florence. Those had been the years of sex. He was haunted and taunted by sex.
Now he had a wife, he loved her, and his desire for wild sex was gone, it had an almost romantic sex with his wife. The beast that used to inhabit him had become like an amputated limb, a vague but achy memory though, suggested rather than felt.
So he got an insane idea of writing a story about this encounter with the little slut. An encounter that didn't have to happen. He came across this idea because he was wondering whether he was really interested in seducing him. Yes, the idea was enticing him. But it was just an idea. He didn't foresee any action on his part.
Many people, in his shoes, probably would have drunk to forget the disillusion but he didn't drink. He hated drunk people. He could not understand how you can destroy yourself by drinking alcohol. Such an idiocy.
How many times his courage had changed form during the years, during all those years in which he had written books? Many times, he concluded. He remembered his Florentine season when he lived and worked in Florence. Those had been the years of sex. He was haunted and taunted by sex.
Now he had a wife, he loved her, and his desire for wild sex was gone, it had an almost romantic sex with his wife. The beast that used to inhabit him had become like an amputated limb, a vague but achy memory though, suggested rather than felt.
So he got an insane idea of writing a story about this encounter with the little slut. An encounter that didn't have to happen. He came across this idea because he was wondering whether he was really interested in seducing him. Yes, the idea was enticing him. But it was just an idea. He didn't foresee any action on his part.
He imagined spending a night with him. The sole thinking of that possible action, made him nervous. The intimation that he could have an evening in a very close intimacy with him in the darkness of a cinema made him thrill and triggered again the beast within that never died.
The Florentine season that had been lurking for such a long time was now reviving, unannounced.
TO BE CONTINUED (MAYBE)...
No comments:
Post a Comment