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Dear Editor:
Your eyes look blue in your primary shot. And I am the best living writer in the United States. Most are not. Did I care about Updike's death? As a man, may he rest in peace. As writer, one of the worst. I read all his shit when I lived in Budapest, before it was turned into Boston. There was a tiny foreign bookstore, a shelf of English writers. I had read little Updike before that, and wanted to be able to back up my feelings of dislike with authority. 2000 pages later of Rabbit shit, I came to that conclusion. Does this qualify me in any way? Your eyes look blue. It's the framing of your face, your smile. Your bone structure would suggest "blue." Once a month, in 1985, I had to report to the rendorszag, the Hungarian police. My visa, after I was interviewed in Hungarian by a cross female police official, was stamped again. "You are a writer?" she had said initially in English. "We don't like when you say bad things about us." Could Updike write about this? I wish he had. Not the flat, metaphor-dead, heart-dead, life-dead prose he wrote. I was hit by cops for bad things I did. I made love with a woman once in the dirt in the park at night and jumped up and yelled "Diszno!" at the eyes I caught behind her that were no more than a foot away from the bushes watching us. Your blue eyes will read this again someday. I will give you a copy of it. It's fiction now, but it won't be any more. It's a lot better than that jackass Rabbit. It's just what I do, the little piece of godhead in me. Most don't. I have the little piece of rabbit shit still left in me. With your blue eyes, I might have had more luck.
Egbert
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