“I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin.” – “Sincerely, L. Cohen.”
Two beautiful, ugly, hangdog men who describe “wide and high” heaven and what it’s like to be “not lovers like that” with somebody who is maybe more even more beautiful, more ugly, but “besides, it would still be all right.” Men who are the Kings of the New York School and Chelsea Hotel sets, respectively, but stand also outside of them, bristling softly and elastically in their righteousness, the ones who teach me about Bruno Walter and the iniquity of those who want to drag you by your propped-up elbow off of your sheets as you listen to the needlepoint motion of rain. Men who love to smoke and eat citrus, like me. Men who love patterns, but aesthetic ones, as in floor tiles or quilts, not as in daily movement. I wish I were big enough to hold them both, or more truly, even one of them.
ARS 