|
||
|
Esquire, August, 1997
From Fairest Creatures We Desire IncreaseWill Self
I love Kristin Scott Thomas --it's as simple as that. But she has nothing to fear from me: I'm no psycho stalker, no agonized fan. I'm Just an adore from a distance. A real distance--I have no intention of getting anywhere near her. In fact, she phoned me last week, and the conversation went something like this:
Self [slurring]: Year? She actually forced her phone number on me, but I've managed to mislay it. I've made a couple of feeble attempts to get in touch with her since then, but quite rightly she's dismissed me as a waste of DNA. It was the same with my mate Nick. He loves Kristin and went to interview her in New York a couple of years ago. Nick said she was the sort of rather bony, nunnish figure you might have a platonic crush on if you were eleven. Naturally, he became intensely besotted with her and now ejaculates her name whenever he ejaculates. (Fortunately, he's married to someone called Kristin.) I don't have any such vicious, impure thought about Kristin. No, for me, Kristin is the dame dangling out of a conical tower, wearing a conical hat, when you're out on a twenty-two-castle lute-strumming tour. It's courtly loving that she requires. The gig would be to wear her garter on your sleeve whilst some horse-riding dude then might she let those perfect lips graze your dying brow. But sex with Kristin? No way. I've read somewhere that she likes looking at people in public and making up stories about them. Tha't why the two of us are made foe each other--because that's what I do to actors, make up stories about them when I see them in public. It'll be like Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe all over again. And the mental communion we could achieve would be fantastic, because I'd script her for life.
|
||
![]() |
||