Since 2001 I write a weekly column for a Belgian magazine. This column is always a letter to somebody, famous or not so famous, dead or not so dead, sometimes just a letter to my mother.
A friend in Leuven, Mark Schaevers, informed me that this week’s letter was extremely short. Further examination revealed that the letter was written to a woman I don’t know.
In other words: the letter was not written by me.
I always wanted to be some else, but if people pretend to be me my last security has crumbled.
Why on earth do you want to be me? It’s not easy to understand why you want to be a homosexual Jew, but if, there are better options.