“To the snow,” Pablo said and touched cups with him. Robert Jordan looked him in the eyes and clinked his cup. You bleary-eyed murderous sod, he thought. I’d like to clink this cup against your teeth. Take it easy, he told himself, take it easy.
I read a great book at my catering shift today (it was in some atrium of the Glenrose hospital, which housed a very small library). The book contained the memoirs of some Canadian journalist called Charles Lynch who had among other things, such as following Che Guevara as he stomped out of a speech by the U.S. Secretary of the Treasury right into the bathroom where he relieved himself and gave a hearty “LIBERDAD,” been a war correspondent during World War II.
Dublin 6 December 1909
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!