dear ginger britton:
i love you. i saw you today and i love you madly. i reverence you. i long to know you, to talk to you, to hold your hand, take you in my arms and smother you with kisses. the sight of you dancing was like a flame through my body. what i would give to take you to dinner in some quiet supper club, your red hair in my face, your lips wet with wine, kissing mine! be kind to me, dear lady of the follies, and invite me to visit you some evening after the show. i tremble with love.
dear sinclair lewis:
you were once a god, but now you are a swine. i once reverenced you, admired you, and now you are nothing. i came to shake your hand in adoration, you, lewis, a giant among american writers, and you rejected it. i swear i shall never read another line of yours again. you are an ill-mannered boor. you have betrayed me. i shall tell h.l. muller about you, and how you have shamed me. i shall tell the world.
p.s. i hope you choke on your steak
—jonn fante, dreams from bunker hill