I think James Joyce did that, and so did D. H. Lawrence.
I plan to.
I’m sort of like them, I guess. or at least when I read them, I knew what I wanted. So, I read parts of Joyce, and all of Chatterley. When I was young.
I’ve never been held by a man the way that he held me in his arms.
“You’re all woman, baby,” he used to say. “All woman.”
I never knew what he meant.
“You don’t even know what you have do you?” he would exclaim. Sometimes he would pound his fist on the table, just to make a point to me.
And he tried to tell me about myself with his pen. He drew everything out in long sweeping arcs with curled serifs. I can’t look because it is so beautiful. His soul was so beautiful, that anything on the outside of him, like those blackened ankles meant nothing at all.
Back later with an excerpt from today. Today is one of the most beautiful letters. It is, and you will see part.