I am desolate to have to agree with a man who thinks it not impolite to say that the Earl of Oxford and Christopher Marlowe and Francis Bacon had all been (in his slimily inelegant, but what he yet apparently considers to be socially permissible, phrase) "roaring homos"--and that Shakespeare (whoever he may have been) hadn't been--, but he's right about that. And that's the difference between Shakespeare and Marlowe (apart from Marlowe's being, when he's hot, the more magical poet): Shakespeare's straight, Marlowe's gay.
Marlowe, yes, is gay (gay, gay), and Shakespeare's straight--Ma nota bene that what I mean by "straight" is "normally bisexual." And Marlowe isn't (at all bisexual--being pretty much exclusively a woman-hating, vagina-phobic roaring homo).
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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