Naipaul, V. S. (Vidiadhar Surajprasad), 1932-2018

"Heaven knows when this will get to you. Argentina is pretty far away; and goodness, so is New Zealand. It was a nightmare journey out. And then, when we were just four hours away, one of the engines of our aeroplane failed and we had to dump fuel and return to Tahiti; and there we waited for something like 21 hours..."

"I was upset to hear that your operation was harrowing and unpleasant. I think you should be more careful in the future, because although I know nothing of these matters I don't see how too many of these operations can be good for you. And what a relief, though, to hear that all my letters had arrived..."

"I count the days for this wretched tour of New Zealand to be over. I am so concerned with other passions that I can't bear to be taken out on excursions - I really don't feel I've been in New Zealand at all. And the other day I really just stayed in bed. I love your letter and can't bear to read it..."

"I cannot write letters to you: they so quickly become obscene and mad and crazy like that long telephone call we had after your dinner party with your sister-in-law (Aileen, the excited inventor)..."

"There are times when I think that what we have so settled and deep that it will last for much longer than the three or four years you have in mind - I do want this to last, and I will not be the one to let you down..."

"They are asking a number of writers to do articles on their favourite pleasure. Well, of course, it immediately occurred to me that the purest pleasure I have known is trussing you up or turning you over or sitting against you with my head in that angle that your waist makes with your hips..."

"Of course I will buy you a Coca-Cola, especially if you ask in English. So many thoughts of you during these days; such longing for you at Stockholm (and the Swedes charged £13 for that call); and memoirs that I can scarcely bear, of your lip, your belly, the curve of your waist and hip when you lie on your side; your tongue tasting the dew-drops of semen you call forth; the bristle above the pussy that receives me so well..."

"A strange adventure in this my most miraculous year of you. Shall I tell you? Do you remember my telling you about the Scandinavian girl I met in Paris in 1951, saw for a fortnight, and never attempted to make love to, and regretted it and regretted it afterwards? Well, in Helskinki about 3 weeks ago, after an appearance at their great new bookshop (on six floors, like Selfridge's), a definitely middle-aged woman came up to me and said we had met..."

"... of course I will cherish the photograph, of which you seem eextraordinarily vain. I was especially happy to get your letter, with its simple and beautiful affirmation of love in your postscript, because for the fortnight before I had been grieving for you and half-fearing that you had forgotten me..."

"I often think: I'll write this afternoon, after the first few dear hours in the day when (in the morning) I can think very clearly and do my best writing. But then I am mentally so exhausted that I prefer not to write, because everything will only be mechanical. It is so good of you to say that you understand what I tried to say about the process of writing with me..."