Really, do I care if great writers screw up their lives of icy intellectualism by wanting to fuck a fourteen year ole Pole very very badly? He wanted a good fuck, he was gay, and he didn't know it. So he realizes his sexuality in shabby old Venice. HELLO! EVERYBODY KNOWS VENICE IS A CITY OF DEATH! Think of all that stagnant water in the canals and the ensuing mosquitoes. Aaaargh. If he didn't die of his erection he would have died of malaria! Duh!
Oh Mann. Ah Mann. Woe Mann.
Yes, yes, yes. I know, I know. I hate horndogs but clever horndogs are the limit! That raunchy old man, such depraved lust! A fourteen year old boy! sigh Even sixteen would have been tolerable...this story depresses me more than The Bell Jar. I do not wish to watch Visconti's film because the man is very ugly and the boy is very pretty. Now psychoanalyze me, I don't care. Your Eros may just be my Thanatos, huh!