Marilyn Monroe Reading James Joyce
I wanted something to eat. I didn't know what I wanted to eat and couldn't come up with any ideas. I was thinking how wonderful it would be to write a book and have a really pretty girl read it. My hunger went away. It astonished me, that my hunger was so easily defeated by desire. The question was would it stay this way, would I always be someone for whom desire would provide an immediate alleviation from hunger? Because I had my doubts. I had read Hamsun, after all. But for one moment, in the spring, in the sunlit exterior, it seemed as if an answer had been stumbled upon, gracelessly perhaps, though indisputably. I felt like Descartes or how I imagined Descartes felt upon discovering his 'indubitable proposition.'
Labels: Boots, Joyce [James], Long Novels, Marilyn Monroe, Springtime
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