You are trapped in my web, an unsuspecting victim. Doomed now, are you, to melancholic servitude for life: I will force you to lick my most secret places; you will exist on the borderless threnodies of my darkest desires, feeding on my intimate secretions, more juicier than any papaya – and you will be like an animal skinning itself in reverse: you will swallow my juices – all my juices – your sex throbbing with its own crazy pulse, never to be satisfied. Lost in the carnal and divine of my pale body – my fleshy witch body.

As to writing. What I have to say, I must say: simply to get it out. After 4 hours trying, whether it’s failed or not, one is physically and mentally exhausted. I mean it. All I want to do is creep into bed, notably after failure. Also one cannot think coherently of anything else. It eats away in the brain, a ceaseless conversation with oneself. The smallest chore is horrendous to get through. People do not stimulate; they exhaust.

Martha Gellhorn,
letter to Betsy Drake featured in Martha Gellhorn Selected Letters

Waiting

January 3, 2019

I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.

Martha Gellhorn
Letter to Hortense Flexner and Wyncie King
[Selected Letters of Martha Gellhorn]