LITERATURE
Literary Indulgence
A memoir of my affair with the Decadent Movement.
More than I love French Champagne, Belgian Diamonds, Russian Furs, Swiss Chocolates, Italian Cinema, Classical Music, and a Roulette Table in Monte Carlo, I love the decadence of literature. Truly and admittingly it is an addiction to me. Quite often I find myself immersed in the Paris Review when I cannot sleep or when I awake. And if one in my world is unfamiliar with the publication, I often find, I have very little in common with such a person.
Where did my craving for literary art begin? Roughly at 12 years of age. I was on an evening flight from San Francisco to San Diego. Seated on a PSA plane — yes the white, orange, black and red aircraft with the painted black smile on the face— I reached into the seatback pocket and found an old book. It was an old copy of Oscar Wilde’s, The Importance of Being Earnest. Reading for me at that time in my life was difficult. I wrestled with dyslexia in the slightest form. However, on this evening, long before smartphones, I gave the book a shot to fill the 75 minute flight time.
