You have decidedly ruined my morning. You and your inextricable collaboration with Mitch, Maryellen, Steamboat Willy, a schitzo, and Walter Murdoch.
I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee to shake the blues and here you stick your nose in everybody's happenings and you decide to show up in my light reading, "Critical Theory-An Introduction" (It's a lovely little number- The basics of theory comprised in a comic book fashion). You muttered something about the interpretation of dreams and I cursed under my breath because last night I dreamt about jiving in a bunny suit which I like to interpret as a happy mishap. And you, snobish highbrow, dare to tell me it was about sex.
But that I could forgive.
But the bit abour writers? That was regrettable. You said that every word ever written, from Shakespeare to my drabbling in journals, whether purposefully or merely by habit, is (and I quote) "a window into the artist's sex tormented soul". It: reveals the writer's "inner life" you said. Well! When I wrote the charming little rim-ram about Steamboat Willy, a homeless man with diamondic tendancies, I was anything but suffering from a harsh Oedipal complex. And Mitch, Walter, and the whole lot of comedic realism, were burnouts suffering from bouts of insanity. Of which? I plead innocent.
How dare you usurp my authority. My own writing! It's lewd. I mean rude. (Freudian slip.)
Then again, I am writing a letter to a dead man.
Crying on the inside,