Wednesday, March 19, 2008
(12:08 PM) | Brad:
Pure GeniusI've been meaning to post this for some time, but now is as good a time as any. No commentary is necessary, but comments are welcome.
From a letter written by Mozart to a cousin, dated Feb. 28, 1778:
Mademoiselle matrés chére Cousine!
you may perhaps believe or even think that I am dead! -- that I Croaked? -- or kicked the bucket? -- not at all! Don't think it, I beg of you; for thinking and shitting are two different things! -- how could I write such a beautiful letter if I were dead? -- how would that be possible? [. . .]
But now I have the honor to query how you are and whether you are weary? -- whether your bowels are solid or thin? -- whether you have scabs on your skin? -- whether you are still a little fond of this here gawk? -- whether you sometimes write with a chalk? -- whether you now and then think of me?: -- whether at times you'd like to hang yourself from a tree? -- whether perhaps you are angry at me, fool that I'll always be; whether you won't make peace in your heart, or, by my honor, I'll crack a big fart! now you're laughing -- victoria! -- our asses shall signal the tidings of peace! -- I knew you couldn't resist me any longer; yes, yes, I am absolutely sure of this, even if today I still have to shit and piss, but in 2 weeks I'll be off to Paris; so if you want to find me hither with an answer from Augsburg thither, hurry up with your letter, send it, the sooner, the better; for if I have already left this place, instead of a letter I'll get muck in my face. muck! -- muck! -- oh muck! -- o sweet word! -- muck! -- chuck! That's good too! -- muck, chuck! -- muck! -- suck -- oh charmante! -- muck, suck! -- love this stuff! -- muck, chuck and suck! -- chuck muck and suck muck! [. . .] Now I must tell you something before I close because I have to stop soon, for I am in a hurry, as I have absolutely nothing to do right now; and then, too, because I have no more space left, as you can see, I am just about out of paper; besides I'm tired, my fingers are aching from writing so much, and, finally, I wouldn't know, even if I had more room to write, what else I could tell you? except perhaps the story that I'm going to tell. [. . .] So then, to make a long story short, it happened about 4 hours from here, I don't remember the name of the place -- it was a village or something like that; at any rate, it doesn't really matter whether it was Tribsterill, where the shit runs into the sea, or Burmesquick, where they make the crooked assholes; [. . .]
UPDATE: Just came across another example. My new task for the week is to find a copy, new or old, of these letters. [Lo and behold!]
'Dearest cozz buzz, I have received reprieved your highly esteemed writing biting, and I have noted doted that my uncle garfuncle, my aunt slant, and you too, are all well mell. We too, thank God, are in good fettle kettle. [...] Oui, by the love of my skin, I shit on your nose, so it runs down your chin. [. . .] I now wish you goodnight, shit in your bed with all your might, sleep with peace on your mind and try to kiss your own behind. [...] Oh my ass burns like fire! What on earth is the meaning of this! ---- maybe muck wants to come out? yes, yes, muck... [etc]'