That real good Ernest Hemingway love letter:
So now I’m going out on the boat with Paxthe and Don Andres and Gregorio and stay out all day and then come in and will be sure there will be letters or a letter. And maybe there will be. If there aren’t I’ll be a sad s.o.a.b. But you know how you handle that of course? You last through until the next morning. I suppose I’d better figure on there being nothing until tomorrow night and then it won’t be so bad tonight.
Please write me Pickle. If it were a job you had to do you’d do it. It’s tough as hell without you and I’m doing it straight but I miss you so I could die. If anything happened to you I’d die the way an animal will die in the Zoo if something happens to his mate.
Much love my dearest Mary and know I’m not impatient. I’m just desperate.
(Hemingway referred to his fourth wife Mary as “Pickle.” That rules.)
I tried to find a picture of the actual letter. This is what I found instead:
Yeah that’s me chilling with Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, and Franz Kafka. I am lumped into “I’m not impatient I’m just desperate.” Nice.