Letter 30
Arthur to Alfred
In New York
Life goes on, there is the Seine and there is the Hudson River, all of this is nonsense. Every time I go in a room, I look for you to sit next to you. The world is full of idiot who laugh. Everything is always the same, Ralph bores me, he is not half the man you are, the rest are bitches, worse, sneering bitches. Seduce in clubs is unimportant, love is pending. Feliciano Vargas is not as stupid as people think. He is delicate and fragile like an anemone, he loves me, the poor lad. My little stone heart bullies him and observe his reactions. All this talks of perfection, to be clean shaven to please the beloved, can not enough. This nonsense works every time, of course, but it's too easy. I can not believe that everything is a game. I doubt you would appreciate my perversity sometimes, you, who is so pure and never your put your tongue in the throat of your neighbor. But you're not there to tell me what it would take to deal with these eyes, when they become maudlin bitterness. I warned him, I warn him about everything, I tell him "I love you and tomorrow I will hate you", he ask me "why tomorrow?", I reply "for the sparks," and I caress and kiss his cheeks. The next day I am extreme coldness. He, so happy, does not understand, he ask me "why love?" I reply that he should know better. I know you do not judge me. I imagine your big head bent to tell me "You do what you want, dude, I would not have done so, but I'm not you." I have to practice my claws when you do not have a chance of being born with your goodness.
I love you, Alfred, come back to me quickly, if you come back.
From Paris, October 13 19**