charlie, there is no future in anything. i hope you agree. that is why i like it at a war. every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. i have to write to be happy whether i get paid for it or not. but it is a hell of a disease to be born with.i like to do it. which is even worse. that makes it from a disease into a vice. then i want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. an obsession is terrible. hope you haven’t gotten any. that’s the only one i’ve got left.
what a pity, lament the tycoon’s wives, to be forced to think about such ugly things at what is usually such a pretty part — what a shamefully dreary backdrop for their unspoilt red-soled shoes and their summer dolce, and their cluck–cluck catch-ups about the weather in st. barthes (lovely, of course — this type of year especially; where do you summer?); what a crashing bore to have to listen to talk about gulags, or war, or genocide, as it puts one off the canapés, rather, though the little salmon puffs are good. cynthia—i haven’t seen you since monaco! erica is debuting her latest nose, and the atmosphere is fractious. … all the world’s future reveals itself to be