Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

long trailing robes across the desert. Suddenly I catch sightof my lover, a priest who has given up hope of Heaven formy body. I throw out my arms and run toward him acrossthe silvery sands.... I can hardly write. My eyes don't focusproperly but must put down all my impressions exactly forthey are extraordinarily intense and important. The door ofper ception has swung open at last and now I know thatwhat I always suspected was true is true, that time is spacemade fluid, that these miniskirts are too short for me; thattime is a knee made fluid. That is hell.14A terrible hangover, the result of mixing gin and marijuana,though pot is supposed not to leave one with any ill effect,unless of course that is simply a legend cultivated by drugaddicts. I am in my office, trying to prepare for the first classof the day. Only with the greatest effort am I able to writethese lines. My hands tremble. I feel quite ill. The party wasgiven by one of the students in the Music Department, Clemor Clint something or other. I had never seen him before butyesterday morning Gloria Gordon (who is in my Empathy Iclass) told me that he gave marvelous "far-out" parties andthat I would be welcome to come last night as he, Clem orClint, had admired me from a distance. So Laura came toPetrarch's party, to put it stylishly, and got stoned out of herhead. It was too humiliating and yet during those momentswhen I lay in that empty bathtub with the two rings, staringup at the single electric light bulb, I did have the sense that I