I think only of the pleasure (15th Feb 1999)

I think only of the pleasure. The Twinky Winky Berlin day. Bow Down Backstreet. Joe Orton in his public toilets. I am tormenting them. And I’m going to torment them some more. I am heading into a real Groszian period now, MORE THAN EVER. I’ve chosen my life. I’ve chosen my life to be in Soho.

I am autistic (15th Jan 1999)

I am autistic. I am sybarite. I live for the erotic image. I live for pleasure. The joy of this. The intoxication. The RAUSCH. I am hard to get close to, to get to know. I continue in my sleepy, dreamy, happily grinning, horny trance. Mad people are happy, they are joyous; they have moved beyond social norms, social taboos, this gives them complete freedom, like the bag lady in NFT, like Oscar Wilde with his rent boys in the West End. I like watching, I like all the penises around me, I am polymorphously perverse.
The pleasures of my life.
He lived in real life the kind of sex life other people only fantasised about.
He defiantly lived purely for eroticism, recording erotic images into his brain to keep him permanently stimulated, permanently swollen, bulging inside his trousers.
This is the safest harbour I have ever found, or ever will find.
“Oh my poor babies, you don’t know who you have taken on!”

Think pleasurably dirty thoughts all the time—this was his serum! (11th Jan 1999)

Think pleasurably dirty thoughts all the time—this was his serum! I am smug, because I know I am compiling the money to buy me pleasure unlimited for a whole year, when I leave Victoria in the summer. How it must play on their minds, the pleasures I indulge. He lived his life paying no attention to other people whatsoever, completely muffled and inured from them. He moved in a sealed compartment (into his erotic Russia to turn it into a red revolution).
People have to live without the book—I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Thank God I have got the book.
I LIVE IN A LOVELY HORNY DREAM.
I’m for me, that’s the beginning and the end of it. Horny dream, sealed compartment, opiate fantasies. As long as the book is progressing, then everything is beautiful. Everything is intensely pleasurable, and intensely stimulating. I feel intensely horny and erotic at all times.
He led a VOLUPTUOUS life. He was for HIMSELF.
Live for my reading, and the book. He kept his lips tightly buttoned, because he was in the rich position. Anyone who attacks me became a SMALL PERSON. Yes, anyone who tries to hurt another human being does make themselves SMALL. I’m afraid this is the uncomfortable reality some people have to learn to accept. Perhaps I’ve got a bit more going for me than they have, do you think that’s possible?
I am PURE WRITER, cannot be reached because I only exist between me and the page, I am pure essence of writer, there is ink in my veins, all I do is process all the pleasure coming in to the apparatus in my brain, and grow the huge hothouse flowers, and keep pumping the pleasure around my veins. All the storms raging and crashing outside the citadel windows, the gardens and trees lashing far below, and he smiled in the white lightning flashes by the citadel window, as he padded on down in his carpet slippers and dressing gown, down the carpeted steps to the study, with the log fire blazing, his Thomas Mann book opened on the table beside it.
People could only stand mutely as this sealed compartment went past them to the room again, to the Boulevard again, to the Soho Cinema and films again.
It brings me joy, and in joy I can write: my progress on my book always increases after each visit. All that was tried, and he STILL kept going, STILL kept indulging, STILL kept brazenly taking his pleasure there. He only won if he kept going.
As Onan prepares a new traffic system for Turkey, I propose a new morality.
He lived at the rarefied level of Nietzsche and Mann; he was afraid they couldn’t reach him there (only ——- could reach him there). He was eccentric, like Marcel Duchamp—small people couldn’t cope with people like that, it drove them mad. Oh God, I ache for the big bouncing breasts now; Soho Cinema was a lovely place, all polymorphous perverts together, so warming! Van Gogh sitting in front of the Rubens all day in the Antwerp gallery. He was so fiendishly mischievous, he would go. Because I’m experiencing pleasures they can’t; I’m not going to give up that advantage. Moonlight Sonata in my heart.

So I end up leaving Berlin in a joyous frame of mind (26th October 1999, Berlin)

So I end up leaving Berlin in a joyous frame of mind. It will always mean a lot to me because of this moment. I will have fond memories of the sublime degree of nothingness it pushed me into, the quality of the pain. Everything they do helps me; I have a determination to make everything they do help me. I am writing notes in my book on the platform as the train goes past like a train spotter. It has given me this moment of epiphany. The moon in the black milky seas above me. The white Mercedes-Benz sign revolving slightly bigger, and slightly more brilliant. The gold clock of the Kaiser Wilhelm splinter glowing beautifully. The giraffe on the side of the office block. The blue neon of the Grundig and other signs. The trees of the Zoo lit brightly green by the white lamps. The traffic slowly passing, hissing along wet roads. I have had a pleasant stay. Thank you so much, Berlin.

I feel as if I have taken root in Berlin Zoo’s Reisezentrum and my beanstalk is shooting up big and strong with each minute that passes (26th October 1999, Berlin)

I feel as if I have taken root in Berlin Zoo’s Reisezentrum, and my beanstalk is shooting up big and strong with each minute that passes. I have written such a lot of stuff here; in the place that I hate so much, my beanstalk will always stand now as a memorial to one of these rare moments when my ink really flowed.