The Independent - London, December 22nd, 1999
Hannibal Lecter's
Christmas lunch
CLARICE STARLING slit the envelope with a kitchen knife and took out the single, silky sheet of paper. She knew at once, before she even glanced at the signature, who had written to her.
Dear Clarice,
Christmas? Thank you so much for inviting me to answer that question.
After the turbid passage of a year, is it not a season when the confluence of rich cinnamon and the unguent of fresh, abdominal sweat paint the palate with desire? I have laid the table with lacteous satin, with chylous damask. Perhaps you do not share my admiration for the tiny pink fleck...
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