“The enfant terrible, with his shameless love of truth.”
I’ve realised I might never renounce Oscar.
His words have shaped me, taken me to brown 1889. A type of nostalgia creeps for what was never mine, but what can I say of it? The man can gather his share of lovers – ‘cultists’ a more accurate term, and build them in whichever manner he pleases.
As many a spinster said of Christ, “To know him is to love him.” At fourteen, the sight of his full face clogged my cogwheels. Most likely, it does still. He has untied, undone, reworked.
I am only thankful.
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