This, Stuart Gimble's final Pork Pony salvo, sees the fiery wordsmith at the height of his vitriolic game, lambasting his foes and singing the praises of high culture.
This wretched magazine for which I write has returned. As have I, alas, as have I. So fear not, loyal literarians, Gimble will swoop down and rescue from this acrid mire of self-satisfaction and base humor.
You may remember that I was in the midst of a world tour when this receptacle for words I deposit my letters in disappeared for a bit. The tour I speak of was abruptly cut short. 'Tis true. Apparently the rulers of the Pork Pony had run out of money. I speculate that they spent it all on slot machines and cheap ale, but what truth's eyes have seen only my intuition can suspect.
Yes, I was spirited back to the states. Los Angeles, my wretched home did call my name and I answered. Sweltering dry heat, I loathe thee! I found my way to the library soon after my arrival. I reaped the fruits of the spined and paged field: Keats, Dante, Scott, I supped on them all. My belly was full with words and I determined that rest was needed. Ah, the satisfaction provided when devouring literature tires me so! I meandered through the aisles, past many a quiet and eager reader. And then I saw her.
Yes, before my eyes, there was she. A stack of books in tow, her arms' muscles shown (and strong muscles they were!). Her brown hair floated about her neck, wisps of it fluttering about. Her bottom was substantial and its robust shape spelled strength. This girl had Stuance!
I admired her from afar for a moment, but my heart soon took hold of my hand and lead me to her. I was awestruck. This creature could be my salvation, my true love. I arrived at her feet and just in time, I say, for a book fell from the stack she held. I deftly snatched before the sullied floor had a chance to bruise the precious tome. It was Fielding's Tom Jones. One of my favorites!
"Ah, thank you kind sir," she said in a breathy whisper.
"No, madam, thank you for doing your part to keep such a wonderful institution intact. My name's Stuart, Stuart Gimble."
"THE Stuart Gimble?"
"The same," I bowed before the beauty.
"Chester the Superior is one of my all time favorite books."
I was shocked. This sparkling example of humanity liked my books! "Young Lady, what's your name?"
"Oh Helen, you can call me Stu. How would you like to join me for some Yeats and tea?"
"I'd love to S-Stu." She blushed and turned away, giggling.
This, I dare say, is a turning point for Stuart Gimble. It is my first date in an epoch and I do so admire Helen's husky flair. When I speak to you next I may be so enveloped by love's grasp that I may find it difficult to write.
Ha! Nothing could ever stop Stuart Gimble from writing, not even true love!