Looking through some old things I had recently inherited I found a diary from my great-great-grandfather, Cumberland Billingsworth. I turned to a random page and read.
August 12, 1880.
That damned Clemens is in town again. Sure, he's a great friend, and an exceptional novelist, but his penchant for drunken debauchery simply wears me out. I'm beginning to think his famous Tom Sawyer is less a composite of multiple individuals, and simply a form of autobiography. Regardless, I must see him when he calls.
August 13, 1880.
[Generally unledgible, though I could make out "onanist", "seduced her with Whitman", and "GOD I HOPE I DO NOT HAVE SYPHILLIS"]
August 14, 1880.
[Written in a different page]
Had my assistant Bosworth write as I dictate. I am way too tight again to write, and couldn't for the life of me make out last night's entry. Anyway, so Clemens and I hit the town again, much to my chagrin. I couldn't help but be embarrassed when he picked up some stray Irish whore and had her accompany us for the night. It was difficult to discern whether having a great writer with me raised my social status, or having that damn gutter trash with us made me a pariah. I must say, though, she does know her way around a man's body much better than my dear Emma could ever dream to...Ahem, that'll be all Bosworth... No don't write
August 15, 1880.
Seeing dear Clemens off today. Told him he should consider a sequel to his great Tom Sawyer, say maybe a book about his friend Huck Finn. He laughed and said that I needed to stop taking so much cocaine. He was probably right. He left me with these parting words: "If you must gamble your life sexually, don't play a lone hand too much."
Au Revoir, mon ami. Tu a mon coeur.
I closed the book. I wonder what this could fetch at auction?
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