The ever eloquent James Joyce. I may not understand a word of Ulysses, and it may forever remain the unclimbed pinnacle that I admire from its base. But how delighted am I to spy on your correspondence with your dirty lil convent girl:
https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2018/02/02/james-joyces-love-letters-dirty-little-fuckbird/
"Today I stopped short often in the street with an exclamation whenever I thought of the letters I wrote you last night and the night before. They must read awful in the cold light of day. Perhaps their coarseness has disgusted you. I know you are a much finer nature than your extraordinary lover and though it was you yourself, you hot little girl, who first wrote to me saying that you were longing to be fucked by me yet I suppose the wild filth and obscenity of my reply went beyond all bounds of modesty. When I got your express letter this morning and saw how careful you are of your worthless Jim I felt ashamed of what I had written. Yet now, night, secret sinful night, has come down again on the world and I am alone again writing to you and your letter is again folded before me on the table. Do not ask me to go to bed, dear. Let me write to you, dear. "
~
Grossly evocative at times, shocking, and sometimes sweet. Correspondence like this should never be confined to the two it was meant for, on mere principle.
To James Joyce who will never read this - never did I imagine the author of the alleged best book ever written could simultaneously be a massive horndog, but the world works in mysterious ways and therefore here we are. Interesting that you called her a queen in one instance though, and promptly started the next one with "My sweet little whorish Nora", also demanded she tell you about all her other lovers. Lol. Ages shall pass and men will be men, and we may pretend to be a bit different now than we were then but are we really? I honestly don't know. What I do know is no man wants another to fuck his woman. Not if she is his, ofc.