Kinbote
08-09-2005, 12:07 AM
I've just been out shopping & bought 1 pkt of notepaper, 25 envelopes, 1 oz tobacco, 1 oz assorted cigarettes (Russian, Egyptian & fuck-all), 1 notebook, and 1 child's drawing book. So I am writing to you.
I arrived here latish on Saturday night after a sod of a journey, tired & worn. Makes you appreciate Oxford, you know, coming to a lonely spot like this. In fact, I feel in favour of Oxford at present. We had collexions on Sat. morning, & Bone gave me a very nice report indeed. Then we peed off, I lugging my suitcase that became unbearably heacy as the day wore on...and on...Anyway, you don't want to know all these details...
However, I'll tell you more about the town perhaps when I have come into personal contact with it. Pop was here on Saturday when I arrived, bearing my (official) copy of/from 'the Listener' & a cheque for 2 gns. I've paid this into my savings bank account, because really I don't know what to do with it. (Pause for the expected response.) I had some beer at the George Hotel. Shall probably go there again, if I have the nerve. I'm all for beer & plenty of it. Shall probably get turned out for quoting the more lurid lines of Auden & Isherwood.
I suppose this isn't a very 'creative' letter but I don't feel particularly creative. I don't want to write anything at present. In fact, thinking it over, I want to die. I am very impressed by this sort of unrealised deathwish of mine. Makes yer ponder.
I suppose my writing is terrible. Sod & ballocks, anyway. Not to mention cunt and fuck. Omitting bugger & shit. I think I shall start going to church...
There is a piano here.
I have a drumming sensation at the back of my skull. My tooth still aches. Balls & anus!
Lookahere, you, write, write & keep on writing. I'm the trapped miner you're feeding through a tube, see? So don't forget it, or I shall be found stiff amongst the cabbages in my uncle's garden.
God, this place is dull.
--Philip
I arrived here latish on Saturday night after a sod of a journey, tired & worn. Makes you appreciate Oxford, you know, coming to a lonely spot like this. In fact, I feel in favour of Oxford at present. We had collexions on Sat. morning, & Bone gave me a very nice report indeed. Then we peed off, I lugging my suitcase that became unbearably heacy as the day wore on...and on...Anyway, you don't want to know all these details...
However, I'll tell you more about the town perhaps when I have come into personal contact with it. Pop was here on Saturday when I arrived, bearing my (official) copy of/from 'the Listener' & a cheque for 2 gns. I've paid this into my savings bank account, because really I don't know what to do with it. (Pause for the expected response.) I had some beer at the George Hotel. Shall probably go there again, if I have the nerve. I'm all for beer & plenty of it. Shall probably get turned out for quoting the more lurid lines of Auden & Isherwood.
I suppose this isn't a very 'creative' letter but I don't feel particularly creative. I don't want to write anything at present. In fact, thinking it over, I want to die. I am very impressed by this sort of unrealised deathwish of mine. Makes yer ponder.
I suppose my writing is terrible. Sod & ballocks, anyway. Not to mention cunt and fuck. Omitting bugger & shit. I think I shall start going to church...
There is a piano here.
I have a drumming sensation at the back of my skull. My tooth still aches. Balls & anus!
Lookahere, you, write, write & keep on writing. I'm the trapped miner you're feeding through a tube, see? So don't forget it, or I shall be found stiff amongst the cabbages in my uncle's garden.
God, this place is dull.
--Philip