November 11, 2017 §
Maybe I will die like Ernest Dowson through drink and self-neglect. Maybe I will be killed by my enemies like Lorca and Kaspar Hauser. I am a Lost Boy, like Peter Pan. Falling in love with a succession of Young Mothers. I was discussing philosophy with a Russian Esmeralda once, and when I told her I liked Nietzsche best, she recoiled, “Oh Nietzsche! I hate Nietzsche!” Why? “Because he hated women!” As Nietzsche said, women make the highs higher, and the lows more frequent. My only contact with women is with whores and sex dancers. That is the world I live in—like a Van Gogh, or a Ravel, this is quite normal. Conventional relationships are no more possible or even conceivable for me than they were for Van Gogh or Ravel, or Nietzsche. “You see, an artist has to be very careful when he wants to marry someone, because an artist never realizes his capacity for making his companion miserable. He’s obsessed by his creative work and by the problems it poses. He lives a bit like a daydreamer and it’s no joke for the woman he lives with. One always has to think of that when one wants to get married.” (Ravel to Manuel Rosenthal). So of course we Lost Boys must rely on the Esmeralda, and the sex dancer. The world of drink and opium, of stocking & suspender & feather boa! The Hour of the Flesh! As Flaubert said, “the sight of a whore is profoundly thrilling to a man”. A good woman could never save me, because I would just withdraw, withdraw, retreat back away from her, into my inner world, of words, of transcendence, of detachment, the unreal life. I can only be alone.
October 21, 2016 §
But the world of Tallulah and Esmeralda has provided all the richness to my sad, lonely young man’s life, and I am eternally grateful to it, and I will always love all the strippers and whores who gave me so many high nights of most exquisite pleasure—from the high-stepping Welsh brunette with red boa at Sunset Strip who always, always, always danced to La Vie En Rose, to Swedish Pamela in Soho, Berliner Riccarda in Berlin, Martina in Nuremberg, all of them, I revere and worship them all. For me the word whore is far from being a pejorative—exactly the opposite. They have kept me alive, and enriched my life. It is just sad that all the beautiful ones have now gone, as the ice disappears.
August 5, 2016 §
I could have had sexual adventure in Brussels, Berlin or Vienna, but I did nothing. There was nothing I wanted. If I’d met a —-, an —— or a —– it might have been different. I still think there must be an Esmeralda out there with my name on her but I may never find her. The great days of Yulia, Riccarda, Iga, Diana, Emily, Martina, Maria seem long gone. That whole world does not excite me like it used to, it does not excite me at all. I still keep going because I don’t know what else to do. Being at Gatwick waiting for my flight to Vienna at least WAS a little bit exciting and erotic, so that was a good sign. Contrast that with my total misery on the Eurostar to Brussels in September. I think going for one night only is better, then I can always tell myself I can be home tomorrow. What on earth would I have done for a second night in Vienna? I went to all the places I really wanted to go. I woke up the next morning feeling completely miserable. A couple of hours back down in the Dorint bar cheered me up a bit before the bus back to the airport.
July 11, 2016 §
After the Vienna Monday night, a month or so later, I can go for a Munich Monday night in May (early flight giving me chance for Monday afternoon Lamm’s) back in the Intercity Jugendstil, then a Berlin Monday night in July (early flight giving me chance for a Monday afternoon Knesepfanne) back in the gorgeous Berlin Plaza. And I will find a magnificent Esmeralda in Moloch. Brussels I can rest for a while. I must really lose my shackles this year. We can live together as loving brother & sister like Les Enfants Terribles (Parents Terribles).