It's a good thing I don't have more money. Or, more accurately, it's a good thing that Apple keeps releaing products that eat into my disposable income. Otherwise, my apartment would be crammed to the rafters of ephemera and artifacts of writers I admire.
A collection of letters written by George Orwell are going up for auction in London this week. They detail a secret love affair between Orwell and the girlfriend (later wife) of his friend Dennis Collings. It's saucy stuff:
"I cannot remember when I have enjoyed any expeditions so much as I did those with you. Especially that day in the wood along Blythburgh Lodge – you remember, where the deep beds of moss were. I shall always remember that, & your nice white body in the dark green moss ..."
Hawt, in a vaguely repressed British way. If I were the kind of guy who buys things at auctions (and I'm not, nor do I know anyone who is), I would be all over that. Who doesn't want to be the owner of Orwell's spicy love letters? Just to say you had them? I suspect this is an idiosyncratic desire, but hey, I am what I am.