Sunday, April 11, 2021

In re: This...  

This.

Halliwell reminded Orton of the high price Dionysus paid for ecstasy. Orton knew his friend was right. Neither of them had had much experience of happiness; and they distrusted it. Over tea and hashish cakes in the first month of their vacation, Orton and Halliwell contemplated their pleasure: 

Kenneth and I sat talking of how happy we both felt. We’d have to pay for it. Or we’d be struck down from afar by disaster because we were, perhaps, too happy. To be young, good-looking, healthy, famous, comparatively rich and happy is surely going against nature, and when to the above list one adds that daily I have the company of little boys who find (for a small fee) fucking with me a delightful sensation, no man can want for more. ‘Crimes of Passion will be a disaster,’ Kenneth said. ‘That will be the scapegoat. We must sacrifice Crimes of Passion in order that we may be spared disaster more intolerable.’ I slept all night soundly and woke up at seven feeling as though the whole of creation was conspiring to make me happy. I hope no doom strikes. (25 May 1967)

History is important, isn't it? You stupid fucks. 

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