Libbie Custer is the only still-beautiful thing to come out of the crushing, vile, necessary military defeat of her husband, General George Armstrong Custer, in the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Though gay, I admire her warm, sexual relationship with the mentally ridiculous but physically gorgeous man that was General Custer ("When I hear the clink of your saber on the stairs, etc."). I would put the happy couple they made, up there with Nathaniel Hawthorne and his wife, and, of course, Victoria and Albert--as proof of the axiom that, heterosexuality (sex and marriage), when it works, makes you better.
Et bien, when love and marriage doesn't work, you get: Marcus Aurelius and Faustina, Nicholas and Alexandra, the Lincolns, Suleiman the Great and Roxelana--wherewith everything, or some part of everything, goes to shit: (in the aforementioned cases) Commodus, the Russian Revolution, our Civil War, peaceful political change of power in the Ottoman Empire. Some spousal couples are poison, though they love oneanother to bits.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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