On October 8, 1994, I finally got round to reading your novel,
"Interview With The Vampire."
The book is, I am told, a worldwide success, but, as you know, the
world has never interested me that much, and I have better things to do
at bedtime than sit and read. When I think of all the novels recommended
to me over the last two hundred years, I shudder at the hours I wasted in
Mr. Stoker, with his quaint "effects," or that vulgar little tramp Mary
Shelley.
But a few days ago, still recovering from my exertions at Milan
fashion week, I spent the night in the company of your prose.
I am making this personal statement now for my victims, and for
myself. It's not a news story. I paid for the space. O.K., I had to
rip a couple of throats along the way, but you know publishing.
What I have to say is this:
I loved your book. I simply loved it. I read it to a couple of
naval recruits, and they loved it, too. It surpassed my maddest
expectations, although personally I would have cut back on the adjectives
a teeny bit. But I was honored and stunned to discover how faithful this
novel was to the spirit, the content, and the ambience of my life. I was
moved by your poignant sympathy, and touched by the good sense with which
you banished the old mirror-and-garlic stuff. I mean, I have the sign of
the cross on the front of my *car*. Having said that, I noticed you
still buy all that crap about white faces, leeched lips, etc. Wake up,
honey. Has Clinique not reached New Orleans, or what? And I know you
think the books are "really" about guilt and suffering, and the plight of
the outsider, but what did you expect me to do? Get married? Let me
tell you, outside is a fun place to be. For one thing, I like to watch.
But these are just quibbles. Basically, I'm one lucky immortal.
Anne, you are great. I wish every pansexual bloodsucker could know the
happiness you gave to me. I love you for it. And I hope and pray, for
our sake, that you never meet me.
And now I have a confession to make. I adored the first book so
much that I went and bought the sequels, and I loved them, too. I loved
their stamina, their restless intensity. And my undead friends in
Hollywood tell me that a motion picture is on the way. At last! It must
be *years* since I first made those polite enquiries. Never had much
time for movies myself, not since von Stroheim died. But some while
back, deep in my usher-and-bellhop phase, I spent an evening at the
pictures, and there onscreen was this juicy little piece called Cruise,
and I thought, *yes*. If anyone ever wanted to play me--no, to become
me--it would be that boy. I'm so moved that somebody was kind enough to
take an old vamp's advice.
So, did you see the movie? In a theatre, or only on tape? I hear
you couldn't get to the screening because of a blood-related problem.
Love it.
If I'm wrong, if you don't like the picture--let me know. Laugh in
my face. Write me letters. Call me. I have to stick my neck out and
say your book is great, and I'm sure the movie is great, too. Do forgive
me if I skip the premiere; I have some travelling plans that can't be put
off. As I always say, if you're destined to roam the earth for the rest
of time, you might as well make a party of it--you know, really *roam*.
It's so simple these days; who needs coffins in the hold when you can fly
to Europe overnight and still arrive in the dark? I always travel Virgin
myself. The stewards taste so fresh.
All my love to you,
Lestat
PAID FOR BY THE VAMPIRE LESTAT. PERMISSION IS GRANTED TO REPRINT THIS
STATEMENT AS LONG AS IT IS REPRINTED IN THE BLOOD OF A RAT.
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