Dear Harold
with apologies to Evelyn Waugh
It is sad that we never meet now. How are you? I was in town just yesterday and would have come to see you but I heard you were away. I imagined you wheeling above the clouds in a hot air balloon of faded colors. I imagined you on Safari. I imagined you stranded in an oasis of paper with just a stub of a pencil. It is strange, is it not, how we imagine for each other the very things we dream of? I did not mean to burden you with my wishes. You will have to bear them as best you can. Toss a few sandbags from the side of your swinging basket; I know your vessel can take it. They will do better under your tender care. Forgive me—my novel keeps me up nights and I have no room for such large game.
No comments:
Post a Comment