9/9/1911 (Paris Ned to Conrad)
September 9, 1911, Paris
My Good Sir-
Confound you devil! Not writing to tell of your adventuress on the high seas has forced me to imaging them all - I'd say she was scarce the height og your chest with Aphrodite's blonde ringlets - now am I right? Dont make yourself anxious, dear boy, I will not tell my lovely sister Marjorie (or Sweet Marjoram, as I have taken to calling her which she detests) You know, an actress friend of mine swears by Sweet Marjoram as a cure for nausea - but I say one of her letters could make a sailor ill (not that I need to tell you, dear boy). While I am on the subject, may I put my pen to good use in urging you with all earnestness away from my sister? You are too high spirited for that girl, and she entirely too virtuous for the likes of you - I could not bear to see you converted on your marriage bed.
Now, enough about you and on to my own woes. My dear coz, can you guess? I am in love! Love of such fire and passion I think my soul already burning with those hellish flames for which it is consigned. Her name- the name the gods have damned, crucified and branded the darkest parts of my being with- Rowena! Alas, my heart! Alas my loins! You are amazed, no doubt, to learn that I am so quickly recovered from the black gash left on my soul by the strumpet Musetta (I shudder to even name that incorrigible Jezebel)! But I will not dwell. Let us rather focus on the charms of the dulcet angel who holds my heart. Those who gaze upon her gaze upon perfection wrought by the hand of Jove himself! Her breath is like spiced wine, her complexion warm honey, a rose in each of her cheeks, her eyes alive with smoldering fires of savage lust (such lust!), two lips as red as the blood in the heart which belongs to her alone - to consume even as my desire consumes her flesh! Soft and alive with dry heat and the sound of a thousand drums played in a distant land. Her hips dance and sway with unbridled sensuality and are shaped out of gold-fretted marble! Her breasts... oh! Her breasts! Inviting, soft, downy melons tasting of coffee and vanilla...Oh! A woman my dear man not of the highest pedigree, but unquestionably of the higest quality! Where did I find her you ask (in vain for there is none like her in the world) in that place of heavenly joys - Yes! The brothel next to Ludovico's! Aye me! I swear she could turn me French and my devotion would not waver.
But I digress, Do not, dear coz, let my present state of bliss make you unhopeful, but take my advice (and the enclosed) and to the nearest of those houses where a gentleman may take his ease (and his pleasure) let you on- and let her have fine eyes and agreeable proportions. Happy Birthday.
I am, ect.
Ned Devine
My Good Sir-
Confound you devil! Not writing to tell of your adventuress on the high seas has forced me to imaging them all - I'd say she was scarce the height og your chest with Aphrodite's blonde ringlets - now am I right? Dont make yourself anxious, dear boy, I will not tell my lovely sister Marjorie (or Sweet Marjoram, as I have taken to calling her which she detests) You know, an actress friend of mine swears by Sweet Marjoram as a cure for nausea - but I say one of her letters could make a sailor ill (not that I need to tell you, dear boy). While I am on the subject, may I put my pen to good use in urging you with all earnestness away from my sister? You are too high spirited for that girl, and she entirely too virtuous for the likes of you - I could not bear to see you converted on your marriage bed.
Now, enough about you and on to my own woes. My dear coz, can you guess? I am in love! Love of such fire and passion I think my soul already burning with those hellish flames for which it is consigned. Her name- the name the gods have damned, crucified and branded the darkest parts of my being with- Rowena! Alas, my heart! Alas my loins! You are amazed, no doubt, to learn that I am so quickly recovered from the black gash left on my soul by the strumpet Musetta (I shudder to even name that incorrigible Jezebel)! But I will not dwell. Let us rather focus on the charms of the dulcet angel who holds my heart. Those who gaze upon her gaze upon perfection wrought by the hand of Jove himself! Her breath is like spiced wine, her complexion warm honey, a rose in each of her cheeks, her eyes alive with smoldering fires of savage lust (such lust!), two lips as red as the blood in the heart which belongs to her alone - to consume even as my desire consumes her flesh! Soft and alive with dry heat and the sound of a thousand drums played in a distant land. Her hips dance and sway with unbridled sensuality and are shaped out of gold-fretted marble! Her breasts... oh! Her breasts! Inviting, soft, downy melons tasting of coffee and vanilla...Oh! A woman my dear man not of the highest pedigree, but unquestionably of the higest quality! Where did I find her you ask (in vain for there is none like her in the world) in that place of heavenly joys - Yes! The brothel next to Ludovico's! Aye me! I swear she could turn me French and my devotion would not waver.
But I digress, Do not, dear coz, let my present state of bliss make you unhopeful, but take my advice (and the enclosed) and to the nearest of those houses where a gentleman may take his ease (and his pleasure) let you on- and let her have fine eyes and agreeable proportions. Happy Birthday.
I am, ect.
Ned Devine
posted by BeckyF | 10:40 AM
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