short note to mandarin
Thursday 22 January 2004 | I like a cookie
You are not a bad person for laughing at Three Kings (did you catch that wonderful short cut to Spike Jonze shooting at cans?) any more than you are a bad person for gasping and putting your hand to your throat when a certain young woman is shot in the head, unexpected and expected both at the same time, or for seeing why some of us have been Clooney-mad since Out of Sight, or for weeping when Almasy says, simply, “I’m trying to write with your taste in my mouth.” A world where Hungarian sounds like Arabic, the British are crueller than the Germans, a thimble holds saffron. A few weeks before my Cambridge tripos I filled twenty pages of my journal with quotations from The English Patient, in some kind of desperate longing-riddled fugue; I also wrote, perspicaciously, that M. would never make a dramatic gesture out of his love for me. Is it awful, to put love and genocide in the same paragraph. Or is that where they most belong, nestled, complicit.
We must read Anil’s Ghost immediately.
Or, if you really desire the ultimate in self-destruction, go hither. You will accidentally forget to eat several more meals, I would imagine. It’s the Literate Romance Addict’s Weight Loss Plan, garnished with All Things Fiennes. Much squalid love to you—
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