First and foremost, let me post this warning:
Okay, now it’s time for a little fun. Are you a fan of James Joyce? Most people are familiar with his work, Ulysses, a modern day retelling of The Odyssey, or his book Dubliners.
All that creativity had to go someplace when he wasn’t writing his novels, so it went into love letters.
Dirty, dirty love letters.
Yes, he wrote those things, and much more.
Does this change my opinion of him as an author? No. I find it kind of funny, but, for all intents and purposes, these were romantic and welcome exchanges between he and his wife. He didn’t publish these. He didn’t wish for the public to know (sorry about reposting all this stuff, James Joyce), and his works are still the same books that were published before his private love letters came out for public consumption.
It does make James Joyce seem more human to know that he had some kinky quirks. Even authors held up in literary cannon as greats and masters have some skeletons in their closet, or, in James Joyce’s case, kinky letters hidden away in a book.
And, who knows, if you have aspirations to be an author and some kinky things hiding in your closet in the form of love letters, it might be best to tell your love to burn them upon your death. That is, if you don’t want your private life to end up on Buzzfeed seventy years later.
Also, delete your internet history.
Just a thought.