"Collective lust roared unashamed at the theatres" (20th Nov 1997)

"Collective lust roared unashamed at the theatres": Berlin 1928, Paris 1860, London 1997. They are beautiful girls in the films. Wouldn't it satisfy my curiosity if I just went to Astral and did it? What good does it do, boasting proudly how long I've lasted, 20 days, 21 days, if I'm being eaten away inside my brain every day. Like Toulouse Lautrec, make myself at home among the sex cinemas and sex dancing. The colours & intoxication & pounding music can fuel me, give me energy. 

I love the openness & relaxation of the girls in the sex films like Egon Schiele loved his models. 

I tried giving up sex cinemas and clubs but I couldn't, it would just be on my mind. The more I try & resist, the weaker I become. How strong I felt the day after Soho Cinema's shame, how strong I felt the day after Astral and red room--it is a strong part of my life. 

Your injunction to me to "do something" takes me in the opposite direction to that what I think I want to go: as I sail down this "do something" river I feel the sense of danger increasing, the sense of being up a creek without a paddle, and moving full speed away from the main river to my destination and the territory I know increasing. But, this is my problem. I wouldn't want to bore you with my problems. I must make this choice for myself, of course. 

Haunt the balconies of the Coliseum. 

I've become sex-obsessed this year, more morphine-addicted than ever. 

I am nothing without the sleazy nightlife, don't just go to musicals, opera, cinema, I do want Boulevard, and Soho Cinema/Astral. So it's my little naughty vice: everyone needs to let off pressure. I've done nothing today, because I wasted it, consumed by sinful desire, so better to have gone and gone it, and been relaxed for the next few days: do what you need to do: a little of what you fancy. It is my project. "Theo had quietly adjusted to Parisian nightlife and the 'hour of the flesh'". Your sexuality is your most powerful force: you must indulge it. Remember that girl watching me as I read the Eric Cantona headline: how thrilling to turn by her and go in sex cinema. The day after going, I made such huge progress, because I'm no longer preoccupied by thinking should I go or not. 

IT IS VITAL RELEASE VALVE FOR ME AS A WRITER. The vampirism returns! I've got a crippling addiction. Laudanum-head, like Miranda Richardson in Kansas City. 

"They are the typical ramblings of a drug user eager for a fix but without the means to pay....But the previously unseen letters show that as well as his desperation to acquire the drug, he also shared the addict's paranoia about his habit. Although Coleridge's habit was widely known--one reference book describes it as a 'crippling addiction'--the letters reveal the large quantity of opium he took...Coleridge admitted two years before he died that despite repeated attempts, he had never broken his addiction, describing it as the 'poison, which for more than 30 years has been the guilt, debasement, and misery of my existence'. Sotheby's specialist Peter Beal said 'These letters offer a particularly vivid and rare first-hand glimpse of the compulsive habits and routine of one of the most famous drug addicts in literary history.'" This hysteria of erotic excitement. The sleaziness of life is its vitality.