1980s Jerry Lee Lewis, #NickTosches, @rxgau Robert Christgau “The finest rockstar bio ever.” Robert Christgau 1982 villagevoice tag/nick-tosches

 

Nick Tosches

“The finest rockstar bio ever.” - Robert Christgau

July 6, 1982

Both Tosches and Robert Palmer, au­thor of another current Jerry Lee Lewis bio, have taken a different route to the rockbook in the past: the pop text. Not surprisingly, neither elected to cover rock and roll per se — unless you count Sound Effects. Nik Cohn’s Rock from the Begin­ning, a history published more than half the music’s lifetime ago, remains the only honorable attempt at that Sisyphean undertaking ever essayed by an individual acting alone. Tosches’s 1977 Country: The Biggest Music in America is pure gonzo scholarship, so outrageous that I felt let down when jacket copy that began

“If you’re looking for a cogent, comprehensive history of America’s most popular music…” didn’t continue “…then steal Bill C. Malone from the library, sucker.”

Alter­nating garish anecdotes, many apocryphal and several completely made up, with the kind of catalogue-number fanaticism only record collectors can read without artificial stimulants, Country attempts to prove that America’s most conservative popular music is in fact its most radical. Where Marxist George Lipsitz makes a similar case by doggedly documenting the music’s class origins and consciousness, Tosches’s book is all fucking and fighting and getting high. As history, it’s partial and absurdly distorted. But as vision, it’s hilarious and instructive, a perfect rockbook combo; it’s not the key to country music, but it breaks down some doors.

Palmer’s Deep Blues, published in 1981 and just out in paper from Penguin, is something else entirely — the best book available on a subject that’s always in­spired passionate erudition. Although I’m not enough of a blues scholar to attest unequivocally to its originality or ac­curacy, I guarantee its scope, coherence, and grace. Tracing the blues back to Will Dockery’s plantation in northwestern Mis­sissippi, where in the 1890s guitarist Henry Sloane (teacher of Charley Patton, student of ??????) was heard to play something damn similar, Palmer follows the tradition to its international present with an admirable sense of proportion (except when he overplays his good source Robert Junior Lockwood).

Because Delta blues is his sub­ject, he barely touches on the East Texas strain, but that’s regrettable only because he would have made such a good job of it. He completes his self-appointed task su­perbly, especially the stopover in Chicago with Muddy Waters and his numerous nephews. This is a pop text, yes, but it’s also where to start exploring the source of all rock and roll. A rockbook and then some.

Palmer’s critical virtues have always been on the ethnomusicological side — he appreciates madness, style, and sleaze, but he’s never shown any inclination to in­corporate them into his writing. So for the same reason that the star lecturer isn’t always the life of the faculty party, it’s no surprise that Palmer brings off a history with more pizzazz than a quickie. 

His Jerry Lee Lewis Rocks! began its life in 1980 as a memorable Rolling Stone profile, but stretched out for the rockstar bio people at Delilah, it’s little more than the usual excuse for photographs (many of which are wonderful). Sure the facts are here, as well as a lot of historical back­ground and a few authorial reminiscences that Bangs always made a specialty­ — Palmer grew up in Little Rock and had his life changed, he says, by “Whole Lot of Shakin’ Going On.” But he doesn’t seem to put a whole lot of thought, or heart, into his thesis that “maybe rock and roll can save souls as well as destroy them.” And while in Deep Blues he applies his musical expertise to one of the key enterprises of all rock criticism — establishing the techni­cal brilliance of inspired primitives — he never does the same for Jerry Lee’s pump­ing piano, surely one of the great instrumental signatures. 

Too bad — I would have liked him to parse those boogie rolls.

Hellfire feels like it was written fast, too — but not ground out like a quickie, really written, in what I envision as a month or two of icy lyric fury. Even at the end, when what begins as heroic narrative breaks down into a string of clipped little items that might just as well have been lifted whole from the trades, the police blotter, and the secret diary of Oral Rob­erts Jr., the book has the kind of trance-like coherence that has overtaken every writer at the dawn of a specially blessed all-nighter. Basically the tale of the archetypal Southern backslider, it’s been described as Biblical and Faulknerian, and it should be. But Tosches, who has lots of just-the-facts hack in him, sustains a page­-turning pace that intensifies its of-a-piece­ness. And his tone partakes of the grand, inexorable distance of a genuine epic as well.

Such things cannot be, of course — the epic is of the past. All the oral tradition south of the Mason-Dixon line can’t bring it back unspoiled, and anybody who thinks different is ignorant, pretentious, or both. So Hellfire can only succeed as some kind of mock epic, the chronicle of a would-be hero in an antiheroic age. And indeed, Tosches does cut King James’s English with journalese; he does mix straight re­porting and bent faction with the stuff of legend; he does disfigure his story with the mean details of Lewis’s vanity, cruelty, and crazed sense of humor. But Hellfire isn’t mock anything. Without hewing foolishly to the usages of a dead form or trying to write like someone he isn’t, and without presenting Lewis’s excesses as merely cool, colorful, or semi-divine, Tosches limns the life of a doomed hero as if that hero deserved our respect, and his. As a dedicated classicist who is also a former snake hunter and a contributing editor to Penthouse, he rejects the notion that there’s something debased or devalued about the mongrel rhetoric he exploits. It’s just there, with all it’s peculiar virtues and drawbacks, and it’s Jerry Lee Lewis’s mother tongue.

Not that this avowed Pindar fan doesn’t respect the past — not even that he doesn’t believe there-were-giants-in-those-days. Like most rock critics with a specialty in roots music, he disdains most of today’s pop, and his Jerry Lee is driven by his heritage as “the final wild son” (Tosches’s phrase) of a family with “a big history” (Lewis’s). Nor is Hellfire at all solemn — in fact, it’s very funny indeed. Lewis’s excesses aren’t merely cool or colorful, but they’re at least that — this wild son has done a lot of exorbitant things in his life, and he’s some interview:

“‘I mean Elvis this, Elvis that. What the shit did Elvis do except take dope that I couldn’t git ahold of? That’s very discouraging, anybody that had that much power to git ahold of that much dope.’ ” Furthermore, Tosches does play his story for laughs, often finding punch lines in the grand rhythms of his rhetoric itself: “She caressed Jerry Lee and soon told him that she was pregnant. He told her that it was no seed of his that had rendered her so. They lifted their hands in anger anew.” Nevertheless, Tosches never makes fun. There is a humor not of derision of of delight.

I’m making big claims for Tosches’s complexity of tone, and I’m sure not everyone will read him that way. His elevated periods can be dismissed as rodomontade, his jokes a sarcasm, his compact narrative and penchant for interior monologue as proof that he didn’t do his homework. Then again, you can also dismiss Jerry Lee Lewis as one more unholy roller, or pigeonhole his achievement as a couple of classic rock and roll songs, a piano insignia, and a fling as a country star. But I would argue — having listened long and hard, I would swear — that there’s a lot more there. Lewis’s offhand arrogance, candid insincerity, and unshakable sense of des­tiny are not qualities commonly found in any artist. He’s very much a modern, set apart not so much by the elementary truth and transcendent power of his singing and playing as by his self-consciousness itself. His distance from his own show of fervor can seem positively eerie upon reflection, yet it in no way diminishes that fervor — if anything, the distance helps the fervor penetrate and endure.

Tosches has absorbed this sensibility if he didn’t share it all along. In Country, he avers (pace Bird and JB) that Jerry Lee Lewis’s mastery of 20th century rhythm is rivaled only by Faulkner’s, but what author has learned from subject hardly stops there, and where it ends is with that same synthesis of distance and fervor. This is why Albert Goldman’s half-truths about rock’s attitudinal roots in “the put-on and the take-off” are so irrelevant — it’s radically unlike “Mad or the routines of Sid Caesar” because its formal roots are in the ecstatic, vernacular music of the American South, just as Tosches, who is touched with the spirit, is radically unlike Goldman, who has all the largess of an unemployed gag-writer.

your-hair-is-beautiful

What Tosches believes is harder to know. I suspect, however, that the source of his own fervor isn’t second-hand — isn’t just his passion for Jerry Lee Lewis. Tosches’s account of Pentecostal fundamentalism maintains an objective if not skeptical tone. But like everything else in this terse, intense book, it never gets theoretical, never socializes, and though nothing else would be formally appropriate I’m left wondering.

Not only does it seem that Tosches envies Lewis the simplicity of his Manichaeism, which is bad enough, but it also seems that in a less literal way he counts himself in thrall to the same dichotomies. Tosches makes no bones about the wages of this belief, always linked so intimately with romantic agony in extremis — he leaves Lewis unloved and without male issue, his career and his IRS account in tatters. His judgement, however, is muted. If Lewis has traded an eternity in hellfire for some great music, you can’t help but feel that Tosches has gotten a fairly great book at similar cost.

As a skeptic in the matter of eternity, I don’t really believe that myself, of course, and Hellfire is fairly great indeed — the finest rockstar bio ever and up with Mystery Train among all rockbooks. But as such it raises philosophical questions, for it reminds us that even the much more reflective Mystery Train is rooted in — and perhaps limited by — the Puritan tradition and/or the Great Awakening, which between them sometimes seem to ground all American culture. Because Nick Tosches, Greil Marcus, and Jerry Lee Lewis each takes this heritage seriously, each creates worth that isn’t mock anything, that connects us with an epic, heroic, deeply felt past. But in escaping modernism’s cul-de-sac they don’t escape modernity, which is why it’s worth remembering that in the end both Hellfire and Mystery Train aren’t epic at all. They’re tragedies of damnation. I’m not lodging a complaint — these aren’t just fine rockbooks, they’re fine books, a lot finer and more durable than most of what passes for literature and criticism these days. But one reason for that is that neither of them is content with such achievements. To the either-or — and beyond!

More:1980sJerry Lee LewisNick ToschesRobert Christgau

#NickTosches Favorite Quote· I will sodomize you and face-fuck you[1] · @mrjyn sound alike · #Hellfire · @rxgau · @nytimesmusic · @Drawmark · @genznyt · [1] Gaius Valerius Catullus · Carmen 16 · c. 84 BC – c. 54 BC · “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo”

“Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo”

I will sodomize you and face-fuck you · Gaius Valerius · Catullus · Carmen 16 · c. 84 BC – c. 54 BC  

#NickTosches #Hellfire is one of the greatest rock bios ever written

Quote Tweet New York Times Music @nytimesmusic

• Published Oct. 20, 2019 Updated Oct. 21, 2019

is the first line, sometimes used as a title, of Carmen 16 in the collected poems of Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84 BC – c. 54 BC).

The poem, written in a hendecasyllabic (11-syllable) meter, was considered so explicit that a full English translation was not published until the late twentieth century.^[1] The first line has been called "one of the filthiest expressions ever written in Latin—or in any other language, for that matter."

Although I'm not short on metaphor, analogy, or love of 'the rule of three,' I am apparently a few roses shy of a Valentine's Day bouquet

Nick Tosches and  @mrjyn sound a lot like Nick Tosches

 

Nick Tosches, who started out in the late 1960s as a brash music writer with a taste for the fringes of rock and country, then bent his eclectic style to biographies of figures like Dean Martin and Sonny Liston and to hard-to-classify novels, died on Sunday at his home in Manhattan. He was 69.

The exact cause has not been determined, but he had been ill, a friend, James Marshall, said.

Mr. Tosches (pronounced TOSH-ez) and his fellow music writers Richard Meltzer and Lester Bangs were labeled “the Noise Boys” for their wild, energetic prose, a world away from fan magazines like Tiger Beat. Interviewing Debbie Harry of the band Blondie in 1979 for Creem magazine, he thought nothing of asking whether she shaved or waxed her legs. Neither, it turned out; she told him she plucked them, one hair at a time.

“We speak for many minutes of legs and their lore,” he wrote. “Each of us learns a great deal from the other. A mutual respect is born.”

Mr. Tosches’ first book, “Country,” published in 1977, was a well-researched look at some of country music’s lesser-known and often roguish figures. “Unsung Heroes of Rock ’n’ Roll” followed in 1984, with chapters on Ella Mae Morse, Skeets McDonald and many more.

 

But by then he had already begun to branch out. His first biography, “Hellfire: The Jerry Lee Lewis Story,” came out in 1982, and in 1986 he ventured beyond music with “Power on Earth: Michele Sindona’s Explosive Story,” about an Italian financier who was involved in assorted scandals.

One of his most attention-getting biographies was “Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams” (1992), about Dean Martin.

“Recordings, movies, radio, television: He would cast his presence over them all, a mob-culture Renaissance man,” Mr. Tosches wrote of Martin. “And he would come to know, as few ever would, how dirty the business of dreams could be.”

For Mr. Tosches, Martin was a celebrity who beat the unrelenting fame machine, the one that often ground stars up and consigned them to early deaths. (Martin died in 1995 at 78.)

“I would describe Dean as a noble character in an ignoble racket in an ignoble age,” Mr. Tosches told Karen Schoemer for a 1992 profile of him in The New York Times.

“Life is a racket,” he added. “Writing is a racket. Sincerity is a racket. Everything’s a racket.”

Mr. Tosches was born on Oct. 23, 1949, in Newark to Nick and Muriel Ann (Wynn) Tosches.

“The things I wanted to be when I was a kid were an archaeologist, because of dinosaur bones; a garbage man, because they got to ride on the side of the trucks; and a writer,” he told The Times. “If I had become a garbage man, I could have retired by now.”

His father owned a bar, and working there as a boy, as Mr. Tosche often said, provided him with the type of street-smart education that mattered. College was never a consideration; instead he held what he described to The Boston Globe in 2000 as “a bunch of strange jobs, both legitimate and illegitimate.”

He liked to tell of the few weeks he spent as a snake hunter for the Miami Serpentarium, which collected venom for research, even though he was afraid of snakes.

“You’d smoke out rattlesnakes by pouring gasoline down their holes and the fumes would drive them out,” he told Salon in 1999. “I did not make it too far in that job. Part of the con was anyone who brought in a rattlesnake over six feet would get a thousand bucks, and the thing is, there’s never been a rattlesnake over six feet. It’s a myth.” (Some experts contend that six-foot rattlesnakes, though rare, do exist.)

At 19 he was living in New York and, as he often related, working for an underwear company on Madison Avenue.

“I was doing back then, in the days before computers, what they called paste-ups and mechanicals,” he told Vanity Fair in 2011. “You have a glue pot, a T-square, a razor blade, and you physically put together advertisements.”

Ed Sanders, who was a member of the underground rock band the Fugs and operated the Peace Eye Bookstore in the East Village in Manhattan, a counterculture hangout, befriended Mr. Tosches and gave him encouraging words about some poetry Mr. Tosches had written, nudging along his budding interest in becoming a writer. He sold his first article, to Fusion, a Boston magazine, in 1969.

Through the 1970s and into the ’80s he wrote for Fusion as well as for Rolling Stone, Creem and other publications, practicing a free-ranging brand of journalism that fell under the label “gonzo.” Although his music-related books were obsessively researched, he didn’t always take his magazine writing so seriously, especially early on, when he was known to do things like review nonexistent albums.

“I was just using it as a rubric to get away with things in print, things that probably would be impossible to get away with now,” he told The Times. “Like making records up, which I’ve done. Reviewing records without even opening the shrink wrap.”

Mr. Tosches published his first novel, “Cut Numbers,” about a small-time loan shark, in 1988. Another, “Trinities,” about the international heroin trade, appeared in 1994.

In 1996 he became a contributing editor to Vanity Fair, and an article he wrote for the magazine on the boxer Sonny Liston became the 2000 biography “The Devil and Sonny Liston.” That same year, he published “The Nick Tosches Reader,” a collection drawn from his three decades’ worth of work.

His most acclaimed and most audacious work of fiction, “In the Hand of Dante,” was published in 2002. The story centered on a previously unknown manuscript of Dante’s masterwork, “The Divine Comedy,” and a more or less fictional character named Nick Tosches who is called upon to authenticate it.

“‘In the Hand of Dante’ weaves together the life of Dante with the life of a character named Nick Tosches,’” Will Blythe wrote in a review in The Times. “Fortunately, it’s not quite as postmodern as it sounds. In fact, it’s kind of a mess, but a splendid, passionate mess, with a moral fervor far exceeding most novels of better grooming.”

In his review in The Edmonton Journal of Alberta, Dennis Chute delivered a considerably more backhanded compliment.

“I think Tosches is a puffed-up buffoon whose bio is a pile of horse manure,” he wrote. “Let me tell you that he also has a prose style made up of pretty phrases that mean nothing, a fixation with the word dark, and a love for obscure words he doesn’t understand how to use. So why do I think this is a must-read book? Because Tosches is one of the few writers you can experience on a visceral level. Reading Tosches is like being mugged.”

“Me and the Devil” (2012) also featured a character named Nick who bore similarities to the author, though one hopes not too many. This Nick enjoyed vampiric sex with young women. The book was not well received. In The Denver Post, John Broening called it “a series of self-aggrandizing pornographic daydreams intended to prop up the sagging legend of its author as an icon of below-14th Street duende.”

If his writing fell somewhat out of fashion, in late midlife Mr. Tosches cut a distinctive figure in that below-14th Street world, his natty dress inevitably commented upon by interviewers. One focused on his leopard-skin loafers, another on his silk homburg.

“I always felt that that was one of the rewards of being 50,” he said. “You could wear a homburg.”

An early marriage, in 1972, was brief. Complete information on survivors was not immediately available.

In 2006 the British publication Observer Music Monthly named the 50 greatest music books ever written. Mr. Tosches’ Jerry Lee Lewis biography, “Hellfire,” was No. 1. He sat for a question-and-answer session in conjunction with the honor.

“At the end of the book, you leave him very much alive, still roaming the earth, but pretty much facing the abyss,” the interviewer said of “Hellfire.”

“It’s the way we all live,” Mr. Tosches replied. “Shallow life, shallow ditch. Big life, big abyss.”

Oct. 21, 2019

Neil Genzlinger is a writer for the Obituaries Desk. Previously he was a television, film and theater critic. @genznyt

#NickTosches Favorite Quote · I will sodomize you and face-fuck you [1] · Nick Tosches and @mrjyn sound a lot like · #Hellfire · @nytimesmusic · @Drawmark · [1] Gaius Valerius Catullus · Carmen 16 · c. 84 BC – c. 54 BC · “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo” 

#NickTosches @grantcopywriter @Drawmark @wardreporter #LesterBangs #RichardMeltzer #NoiseBoy #vivalasvegas #privatelibrary @BrantMoorefield @JamesSReaney #DeanMartin #Dino #Creem #SonnyListon #ThatsNotAmore @genznyt 

Nick Tosches, Fiery Music Writer and Biographer, Dies at He brought a brash style to coverage of the rock world in the late s and ’ s, then applied similar skills to novels and books on Dean Martin and Sonny Liston. nytimes.com Brant Moorefield  · h Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams  Oahu Nick Tosches, Fiery Music Writer and Biographer, Dies at  John Grant Music Journalist and Novelist, Dead at . RIP. – Rolling Stone Nick Tosches, Music Journalist and Novelist, Dead at Nick Tosches, novelist and music journalist who penned books about subjects ranging from Jerry Lee Lewis to Sonny Liston, has died at . rollingstone.com Mark Kaufman @Drawmark · h Image Time to break out the Bible. RIP  Steven Ward @wardreporter ·  #LesterBangs #RichardMeltzer were great but my favorite #NoiseBoy has always been Oct Nick Tosches, fiery music writer and biographer, dies at nyti.ms O'Shaughnessy Public Library @oshpublib · Oct Farewell to Nick Tosches, legend. Coincidentally picked up Viva Las Vegas' memoir yesterday based solely on Tosches' front cover blurb. The name holds weight.

if i do not hear, 

i will not know.

if there is no hope, belief, or spark,

i will maintain hopefulness, believing and tinder.

If i do not know still, 
I will fucking curse all everloved.
 
If I do not destroy now,
What I do not hear is ended.

I will destroy forever which never was, nor never will be mended. 

 I realized, but not before *you had gone.

develop romantic life, ever it pleases

desire to relieve the Past,  
destined never to relieve its Future.

endure sadness today,
do not speak of unenlightened future tomorrow. 

Looks like it's fucking time FOR fucking TIME!

It seems like I was.

Fucking calm.

Fuck, grow up.


It seems to have been!

It seems to have been!

He seems to have been fucking mean and selfish. 

the Truth said, 'Not tonight.'

'Fuck me on a plane,' half accused but

never convicted of halfing it in her.

again, half-in the bathroom suite, sui generic, carpeted kitchen, too ugly to hide, too-naked, rushes your truth, your gaiety.

Give me some inserts of amphetamine, and lemme hides as "nobody looks at me".

fuck. Tell me!

Who is the man you are so angry with?

Yes, you have been very long and selfish, 

especially for your man who doesn't get fucked!

He stopped being your man who would know you!


Yes, you were shaking. but only apparent as trope, or long con .

Half-rounds, like horrors, are neither the price, 

nor the reason why people move, 

if people move.

moving is not half-bad if its half-bad people who move.

    

But, you separated! 

But yes, kill me, fuck me, may I.

I would be happy to. 

listen kindly and fucking empathy...

Fucking, fucking grow up.

It seems!

Looks like I'm mean and selfish even fucking.

He seems to be!

It seems to have been cruel and selfish.

He seems to have been fucking day by day.

You unhealthy whore.

I would be happy to listen kindly and fucking empathy...

Looks like I was!

He seems to have been very vicious, vicious whore.

It seems to have been!

This seems to be the mean average mean way.

Looks like I was!

He seems to be real and fucking.

Neutral whore.

Fuck, grow up.

Looks like I was!

Looks like I was!

Looks like I was!

It seems to have been!

He seems to have been fucking mean and selfish.

It seems to have been!

Looks like fucking bad people are wrong.

Looks like I was fucking final.

He seems to have been mean ultimate selfish.

It seems like I was the last silence.

He seems to have been fucking first.

Unfinished who're unable to act, 

share limited last action only...

Fucking fucking happy .

I love the blue train:

its selfish fucking 

tells my Frog Bayou breasts

of its cock and cypress insensitivies

tree-times-a-month monthly.

its wine, the very life.

   faith

below is something which you have never before read, and which, as you will soon see, have not and could not have written...emotional, respectful, responsible, and free from reproach or duty it springs, from the unmuddied wellspring of my clear unreachable ocean floor.

You may read and feel discouraged at its overly florid, inappropriate contextual tonality, but continue...let it inside; where, i promise its eternal timelessness--although uncommon, becomes its subject, befitting few, and singularly, one, whose grandiloquence directs its necessity. 

I only know it exists because it is in your hand. 

urgent

minimal cooperation for benignity on-call ruled out for good of emotional health.

This, however, ruled out, can not wait. 

I respectfully implore expeditious reprieve to current cessation of communication;

as fish may not cut bait, I ask, angler to angler.

I suspect, as deeply my understanding allows, allowing for my previously failed understanding and engagement, or lack thereof, to the serious matters necessary for the previously thought impossible superfluity of organic mining, whose reliance on the redundant sounding unsatisfactory modalities of interpersonal communication, mentioned innumerously,  and further repeatedly warned as contributory, I maintain, still their major accusatory party to this notable setback.

  While I have explored toxicity levels, less manufactured but more consciously ignored from malignant inaction, no less complicit does my discovery, of which, by client, and unlike him, I hereby toothlessly, and sworn free from future beneficiary royalties, inducements, proprietary incentivizations, or other interests, implore, as sworn representative in and about all matters, no waived privileged confidentiality exists, and/or other stipulations from privilege do not exist implicit to and current of this meeting...

head in hands, I ask for forgiveness for the effects, remarkably neutralized by the penitential mandate imposed through  Wisdom and possible nonexempt duty of enforcement, as uncontested, and unaware of the severity and magnitude of the charges proffered, in absentia, but notwithstanding of them, and mindful to their relevant accountability, of which I as sworn amanuensis, hereby, accept responsibility, rejecting its very perception to future deficiency, neither provably postulate here today, nor retroactively probatory for all past misdeeds and insult to you and the body whose enterprise my clients did cause, and for those of which he or I may not be aware. 

My predication, not loyalty, I ask, cognizant of your Right recognized and keenly aware of  your concerns, am I.

I ask for a limited reinstatement from previous imposition of written order produced by yourself of 10 October, 2019, understanding all thereby given and not excluding those not included within, for a temporary, upon deliberation, immediate abstention, regarding all future penalties regarding only the matter at hand, and indemnity from same, as relief for my client's benefit, and in light of my client's continued imposed correctional sentence, as time served, plus, 30 days, from date of agreement and subject to any and all qualification, addendum, revision which you may require, and as per my client's acceptance, shall be from that day forward free from displeasure to both parties, and thereby reliant upon both parties for the future benefit of these, mutually acceptable, granted.

This overwrought catharsis with which we...

I now share  my experience ...

I have maneuvered by myself, aided by an overabundant searchable archive of undeniable evidence as to its legitimacy and  inconsolable regret and disbelieving incomprehension of myself and wonderment that I, as a fully emotionally evolved person, no stranger,  and even current supporter for the importance and essential endowment for and to women's struggle for equality, empowerment, and radical  gender-shifting improvement for themselves which begins with the abolishment of traditional and formerly ingrained generational legacy brought from a patriarchal cause and denial of the sad state of  man/woman equality roles in the past and to their immediate rejection in the present...

... In the first three months of what I considered an emotionally and sexually charged compatibly reciprocal love affair, the likes of which in my experienced I had never known, whose romantic, intellectual and sexual spell I found myself under, whose benefit of circumstance provided a means for me to explore and reappraise critically and with the unenviable perspective of its too-sad failure which I now sought out to understand and correct.

the opportunity to, not so much​,  put closure​, I hate that word, but​ ​fully close and fully reconstruct the unnaturally quick dilapidation of this house, and its  unpleasant​, though sometimes understandable, contribution fraught  with  infinite possibility, frustration, excitement, limitation, practicality, spontaneity, and both our age, and the age we both acted, not from immaturity but from some like-minded, raised by wolves feral wonder we both found each other in ourselves and now in us, together more lupine than human, more pack-minded than lone survivor...I'll stop but you get it. 

i hope you also get the true tenor and seriousness of what I have  discovered; the quest I've begun to find it again, and the care and care I intend to put toward its extrication, restoration and continued  preservation, by me.

Although I'm not short on metaphor, analogy, or love of 'the rule of three,' I am apparently a few roses shy of a Valentine's Day bouquet.

And, while I would never consider flowering appreciation of classic beauty an expression too pedestrian  impediment, as partial presentation among one thousand and one nights of all manner, multiplicity, and eccentricity,

frissonage du puissance sexe

from concubinage to menage, cuckoldry to coprophagy (mes amis, non pour moi, merci, mais, je ne regarde pas pour vous), incorporeal to interspecial, submission to Sade,  bagatelle to diamond symoblically whimsical or potent, or portent, importunity, or disposable amuse bouche, automatically exempt to impart, for you, my exquisite singularity, bed-whetted, never bed-tested, nor broken in, insatiable as it is,

your

penumbrae emanates reverentialy beatific significance,

I,  

through 

you, 

am present;

threefold,

others impenitently observe:

before, during, and after it come;

to me, more formally, to me, it come,

other admirers diminished intimation, while not less acute shows what they are prepared to see;

mine, never prepared, of experiential, non-idetic recollection, insensate,

piques

from

deprivation.

I am

now

piously

resupplied

offerings,

desire,

and

tongued with voice for you to gain. 

your Will take this lease as article, its promise

your guarantee on delivery, future spoils of its discovery to you as tribute to you,

yours to Conquer,

mine

it to defend, not destroy,

repayment, its provident blessing, both good omen and irreducible faith promise success,

sealed destiny,

rewarded faith,

and

redoubtable fortune.

Common terms and phrases

#bagatelle Love a-la-Mode 1782 Charles Macklin

Sir C. Oh! dear madam, don't ask me, it's a very foolish song—a mere bagatelle.

Char. Oh! Sir Callaghan, I will admit of no excuse.