Read Virginia Woolf’s last letter to her husband before she loaded her coat up with stones and drowned herself in a river.
Mike Tyson, The Wall Street Journal
I feel certain that I am going mad again. I have this incredible urge to bite somebody’s ear off. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time, not the way I did after Lady Ottoline Morrell decked me with a right hook in Tokyo.
I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what they’re telling me to do—get a Maori face tattoo. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer–not since I fired Bill Cayton and got in bed with Don King.
I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. Maybe three rounds of shadowboxing, three rounds on the light bag, three on the heavy bag–then maybe ten minutes of jumping rope to cool down.
You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you—well, you and my pigeons. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Either you or Cus D’Amato.
Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I’m going to load my pockets up with stones, right after I make weight for the Mitch Green fight.
I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. But that’s what they said about Mike Tyson and Robin Givens before that awful interview on Barbara Walters.