Thursday, September 18, 2008
I must review a book of erotic stories. Some of them are fine. Some of them arouse. Others are flat and cold and full of tricks. All of them are what they are. Stories about sex. It is what I do. What I have become. I hold the manuscript in my hand and I would cry again. I have been crying now for days it seems. I am overwhelmed by the loss of myself. Somewhere, sometime I have been abandoned. There are books on my shelf that mean more to me than anything. There are words that make me whole, and I know now that I will never write like this. I have become a gaping cunt, a shred of pornography, a photograph of tits and arse torn from a page and secreted under someones bed. It is nothing, what I do. It is nothing like the needles of truth I crave. I am pricked by them suddenly in the work of others. These writers that I fall in love with for a moment as I scramble towards intimacy across the jumble of their words. I cannot touch, I cannot love, I cannot write, but I must review this collection of erotic stories and I have nothing much to say at all.