Story of the Eye copyright (c) J.-J. Pauvert, 1967
This Translation copyright (c) Urizen Books, 1977



Georges Bataille

Story of the Eye

By Lord Auch

Translated by Joachim Neugroschal

With Essays by Susan Sontag and Roland Barthes [NOT]



     Publisher's Note

The shortness of this important erotic classic - now
translated into English for the first time fifty years
after its original French publication - enables us to
include in this volume two essays that deal with thc
genre and style of Story of the Eye: Susan Sontag's
essay on  aspects  of the  literature  of sex,  The
Pornographic Imagination (from `Styles of Radical
Will', 1967) explores a literary form that is, despite its
manifold representation in English and Continental
writing, seldom accepted in our puritan Anglo-
American canon. Roland Barthes' The Metaphor of
the Eye (from the magazine `Critique', I963) discusses
in depth the language of Story of the Eye, a major
example of French Surrealist writing, a movement
which is at last beginning to receive serious critical
attention in England and the United States.   M.B.


STORY OF THE EYE



            Translator s Note



Story of the Eye was GEORGES BATAILLE'S first novel, and there were
four editions, the first in I928. The other three, known as the "new
version", came out in I940, I94I, and I967. The "new version"
differs so thoroughly in all details from the first edition that one can
justifiably speak of two distinct books. Indeed, the Gallimard
publication of the complete works includes both versions in its
opening volume.
  The English translation is based on the original version, but the
"Outline for a Sequel" comes from the fourth edition.
  Of all the editions, only the final, posthumous one bore the
author's name. The other three were credited to Lord Auch, a
pseudonym explained in Bataille's short prose piece Le Petit (I943).
(The relevant part is included at the end of this section.)
                                    J.N.


           PART 1. THE TALE



           1.  The Cat's Eye

I grew up very much alone, and as far back as I recall I was
frightened of anything sexual. I was nearly sixteen when I met
Simone, a girl my own age, at the beach in X. Our families being
distantly related, we quickly grew intimate. Three days after our
first rneeting, Simone and I were alone in her villa. She was
wearing a black pinafore with a starched white collar. I began to
realize that she shared my anxiety at seeing her, and I felt even
more anxious that day because I hoped she would be stark naked
under the pinafore.
  She had black silk stockings on covering her knees, but I was
unable to see as far up as the cunt (this name, which I always used
with Simone, is, I think, by far the loveliest of the names for the
vagina). It merely struck me that by slightly lifting the pinafore


from behind, I might see her private parts unveiled.
  Now in the corner ofa hallway there was a saucer ofmilk for the
cat. "Milk is for the pussy, isn't it?" said Simone. "Do you dare me
to sit in the saucer?"
  "I dare you," I answered, almost breathless.
  The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small
bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me,
she sat down without my being able to see her burning buttocks
under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to my
head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as
she eyed my stiffcock bulging in my trousers. Then I lay down at
her feet without her stirrin  and for the first time, I saw her  pink
and  dark"  flesh  cooling  in  the  white  milk.  We  remained
motionless, both of us equally overwhelmed. . .
  Suddenly, she got up, and I saw the milk dripping down her
thighs  to  the  stockings.  She  wiped  herself evenly  with  a
handkerchiefas she stood over my head with one foot on the small
bench, and I vigorously rubbed my cock through the trousers
while writhing amorously on the floor. We reached orgasm at
almost the same instant without even touching one another. But
when her mother came home, I was sitting in a low armchair, and I
took advantage ofthe moment when the girl tenderly snuggled in
her mother's arms: I lifted the back of her pinafore, unseen, and
thrust my hand under her cunt between her two burning legs.

  I dashed home, eager to masturbate again. The next day there
were such dark rings around my eyes that Simone, after peering at
me for a while, buried her head in my shoulder and said earnestly:
"I don't want you to toss offany more without me."

  Thus a love life started between the girl 'and myself, and it was so
intimate and so intense that we could hardly let a week go by
without meeting. And yet we virtually never talked about it. I
realized that her feelings at seeing me were the same as mine at
seeing her, but I found it difficult to have things out. I remember
that one day, when we were in a car tooling along at top speed, we
crashed into a cyclist, an apparently very young and very pretty


girl. Her head was almost totally ripped offby the wheels. For a
long time, we were parked a few yards beyond without getting
out, fully absorbed in the sight of the corpse. The horror .and
despair at so much bloody flesh, nauseating in part, and in part very
beautiful, was fairly equivalent to our usual impression upon
seeing one another. Simone was tall and lovely. She was usually
very natural; there was nothing heartbreaking in her eyes or her
voice. But on a sensual level, she so bluntly craved any upheaval
that the faintest call from the senses gave her a look directly
suggestive of all things linked to deep sexuality, such as blood,
suffocation, sudden terror, crime; things indefinitely destroying
human bliss and honesty. I first saw her mute and absolute spasm
(which I shared) the day she sat down in the saucer of milk. True,
we only exchanged fixed stares at analogous moments. But we
never calmed down or played except in the brief,relaxed minutes
after an orgasm.
  I ought to say, nevertheless, that we waited a long time before
copulating. We merely took any opportunity. to indulge in
unusual acts. We did not lack modesty -on the contrary-but
sornething  urgently  drove  us to  defy  modesty  together as
immodestly as possible. Thus, no sooner had she asked me never to
toss off again by myself (we had met on top of a clif&127, than she
pulled down my pants and had me stretch out on the ground. She
tucked her dress up, mounted my belly with her baek towards my
face, and let herself go, while I thrust my finger, lubricated with
my young sperm, into her cunt. Next, she lay down, with her head
under my cock between my legs, and thrusting her cunt in the air,
she brought her body down towards me, while I raised my head to
the level of that eunt: her knees found support on my shoulders.
  "Can't you pee up to my cunt?" she said.
  "Yes," I answered, "but with you like this, it'll get on your dress
and your face."
  "So what," she concluded. And I did as she said, but no sooner
was I done than I flooded her again, this time with fine white come.
  Meanwhile, the smell of the sea mixed with the smell of wet
linen, our naked bodies, and the come. Evening was gathering, and
we stayed in that extraordinary position, tranquil and motionless,


when all at once we heard steps crushing the grass.
  "Please don't move, please," Simone begged.
  The steps halted, but it was impossible to see who was
approaching. Our breathing had stopped together. Simone's arse   ,
raised aloft, did strike me as an all-powerful entreaty, perfect as it
was; with its two narrow, delicate buttocks and its deep crevice;
and I never doubted for an instant that the unknown man or
woman would soon give in and feel compelled to masturbate
endlessly while watching that behind. Now the steps resumed,
faster this time, almost running, and suddenly a ravishing blond
girl loomed into view: Marcelle, the purest and most affecting of
our friends. But we were too strongly contracted in our dreadful
positions to move even a hair's breadth, and it was our unhappy
friend who suddenly collapsed and huddled in the grass amid sobs.
Only now did we tear loose from our extravagant embrace to hurl
ourselves upon a self abandoned body. Simone tiiked up the skirt,
ripped off the panties, and drunkenly showed me a new cunt, as
lovely and pure as her own: I kissed it furiously while finger
fucking Simone, whose legs closed around the hips ofthat strange
Marcclle, who no longer hid anything but her sobs.
  "Marcelle," I exclaimed, "please, please don't cry. I want you to
kiss me on the mouth. . ."
  Simone, for her part, stroked the girl's lovely smooth hair   ,
covering her body with fond kisses.

  Meanwhile the sky had tumed quite thundery, and, with
nightfall, huge raindrops began plopping down, bringing relief
from the harshness of a torrid, airless day. The sea was loudly
raging, outroared by long rumbles of thunder, while flashes of
lighming,  bright as day, kept brusquely revealing the two
pleasured cunts of the now silent girls. A brutal frenzy drove our
three bodies. Two young mouths fought over my arse, my balls,
and my cock, but I still kept pushing apart female legs wet with
saliva and come, splaying them as if writhing out of a monster's
grip, and yet that monster was nothing but the utter violence of
my movements. The hot rain was finally pouring down and
strcaming over our fully exposed bodies. Huge booms ofthunder


shook us, heightenÌng our fury, wresting forth our cries of rage,
which each flash accompanied with a glimpse ofour sexual parts.
Simone had found a mud puddle, and was smearing herselfwildly:
she wasjerking ofF with the earth and coming violently, whipped
by the downpour, my head locked in her soil-covered legs, her face
wallowing in the puddle, where she was brutally churning
Marcelle's cunt, one arm around Marcelle's hips, the hand yanking
the thigh, forcing it open.


     2.  The Antique Wardrobe

That was the period when Simone developed a mania for breaking
eggs with her behind. She would do a headstand on an armchair in
the parlour, her back against the chair's back, her legs bent towards
me, while I jerked off in order to come in her face. I would put the
egg right on the hole in her arse, and she would skill fully amuse
herself by shaking it in the deep crack of her buttocks. The
moment my come shot out and trickled down her eyes, her
buttocks would squeeze together and she would come while I
smeared my face abundantly in her ass.
  Very soon, of course, her mother, who might enter the villa
parlour at any moment, did catch us in our unusual act. But still,
the first time this fine woman stumbled upon us, she was content,
despite having led an exemplary life, to gape wordlessly, so that we


did not notice a thing. I suppose she was too ftabbergasted to speak.
But when we were done and trying to clean up the mess, we
noticed her standing in the doorway.
  "Pretend there's no one there," Simone told me, and she went
on wiping her behind.
  And indeed, we blithely strolled out as though the woman had
been reduced to a family portrait.
  A few days later, however, when Simone was doing gymnastics
with me in the rafters ofa garage, she pissed on her mother, who
had the misfortune to stop underneath without seeing her. The sad
widow got out ofthe way and gazed at us with such dismal eyes
and such a desperate expression that she egged us on, that is to say,
simply, with Simone bursting into laughter, crouching on all fours
on the beams and exposing her cunt to my face, I uncovered that
cunt completely and masturbated while looking at it.

  More than a week had passed without our seeing Marcelle,
when we ran into her on the street one day. The blonde girl, timid
and naively pious, blushed so deeply at seeing us, that Simone
embraced her with uncommon tenderness.
  "Please  forgive  me,  Marcelle,"  she  murmured.  "What
happened the other day was absurd, but that doesn't mean we can't
be friends now. I promise we'll never lay a hand on you again."
  Marcelle, who had an unusual lack ofwill power, agreed tojoin
us for tea with some other friends at our place. But instead oftea,
we drank quantities of chilled champagne.
  The sight of Marcelle blushing had completely overwhelmed
us. We understood one another, Simone and I, and we were certain
that from now on nothing would make us shrink from achieving
our ends. Besides Marcelle, there were three other pretty girls and
two boys here. The oldest of the eight being not quite seventeen,
the beverage soon took effect; but aside from Simone and myself,
they were not as excited as we wanted them to be. A gramophone
rescued us from our predicament. Simone, dancing a frenzied
Charleston by herself, showed everyone her legs up to her cunt,
and when the other girls were asked to dance a solo in the same
way, they were in too good a mood to require coaxing. They did


have panties on, but the panties bound the eunt laxly without
hiding much. Only Marcelle, intoxicated and silent, refused to
dance.
  Finally, Simone, pretending to be dead drunk, crumpled a
tablecloth and, lifting it up, she offered to make a bet.
  "I bet," she said, "that I can pee into the tablecloth in front of
everyone.   "
  It was basically a ridiculous party of mostly turbulent and
boastful youngsters. One of the boys challenged her, and it was
agreed that the winner would fix the penalty. . . . Naturally,
Simone did not waver for an instant, she richly soaked the
tablecloth. But this stunning act visibly rattled her to the quick, so
that all the young fools started gasping.
  "Since the winner decides the penalty," said Simone to the loser   ,
"I am now going to pull down your trousers in front ofeveryone."
  Which happened without a hitch. When his trousers were off,
his shirt was likewise removed (to keep him from looking
ridiculous). All the same, nothing serious had occurred as yet:
Simone had scarcely run a light hand over her young friend, who
was dazzled, drunk, and naked. Yet all she could think of was
Marcelle, who for several moments now had been begging me to
let her leave.
  "We promised we wouldn't touch you, Marcelle. Why do you
want to leave?"
  "Just because," she replied stubbornly, a violent rage gradually
overcoming her.

  All at once, to everyone's horror, Simone fell upon the floor. A
convulsion shook her harder and harder, her clothes were in
disarray, her bottom stuck in the air, as though she were having an
epileptic fit. But rolling about at the foot of the boy she had
undressed, she mumbled almost inarticulately:
  "Piss on me. . . . Piss on my cunt. . . ." she repeated, with a kind
of thirsc.
  Marcelle gaped at this spectacle: she blushed again, her face was
blood-red. But then she said to me, without even looking at me,
that she wanted to take offher dress. I halftore it off, and straight


after, her underwear. All she had left was her stockings and belt,
and after I fingered her cunt a bit and kissed her on the mouth, she
glided across the room to a large antique bridal wardrobe, where
she shut herself in after whispering a few words to Simone.
  She wanted to toss off in the wardrobe and was pleading to be
left in peace.
  I ought to say that we were all very drunk and completely
bowled over by what had been going on. The naked boy was
being sucked by a girl. Simone, standing with her dress tucked up,
was rubbing her bare cunt against the wardrobe, in which a girl
was audibly masturbating with brutal gasps. And all at once,
something incredible happened, a strange swish ofwater, followed
by a trickle and a stream from under the wardrobe door: poor
Marcelle was pissing in her wardrobe while masturbating. But the
explosion  of totally  drunken  guffaws  that  ensued  rapidly
degenerated into a debauche of tumbling bodies, lofty legs and
arses, wet skirts and come. Guffaws emerged like foolish and
involuntary hiccups but scarcely managed to interrupt a brutal
onslaught on cunts and cocks. And yet soon we could hear
Marcelle dismally sobbing alone, louder and louder, in the make-
shift pissoir that was now her prison.
  Halfan hour later, when I was less drunk, it dawned on me that I
ought to let Marcelle out ofher wardrobe: the unhappy girl, naked
now, was in a dreadful state. She was trembling and shivering
feverishly. Upon seeing me, she displayed a sickly but violent
terror. After all, I was pale, smeared with blood, my clothes askew.
Behind me, in unspeakable disorder, brazenly stripped bodies
were sprawled about. During the orgy, splinters of glass had left
deep bleeding cuts in two ofus. A young girl was throwing up, and
all ofus had exploded in such wild fits oflaughter at some point or
other that we had wet our clothes, an arixichair, or the floor: The
resulting stench ofblood, sperm, urine, and vomit made me almost
recoil in horror, but the inhuman shriek from Marcelle's throat
was far more terrifying. I must say, however, that Simone was
sleeping tranquilly by now, her belly up, her hand still on her
pussy, her pacified face almost smiling.


  Marcelle, staggering wildly across the room with shrieks and
snarls, looked at me again. She flinched back as though I were a
hideous ghost in a nightmare, and she collapsed in a jeremiad of
howls that grew rnore and more inhuman.

  Astonishingly, this litany brought me to my senses. People were
runnÌng up, it was inevitable. But I never for an instant dreamt of
fleeing or lessening the scandal. On the contrary, I resolutely strode
to the door and flung it open. What a spectacle, whatjoy! One can
readily picture the cries of dismay, the desperate shrieks, the
exaggerated threats of the parents entering the room! Criminal
court, prison, the guillotine were evoked with fiery yells and
spasmodic curses. Our friends themselves began howling and
sobbing in a delirium of tearful screams; they sounded as if they
had been set afire as live torches. Simone exulted with me.
  And yet, what an atrocity! It seemed as if nothing could
terminate the tragicomical frenzy of these lunatics, for Marcelle,
still naked, kept gesticulating, and her agonizing shrieks of pain
expressed unbearable terror and moral suffering; we watched her
bite her mother's face amid arms vainly trying to subdue her.
  Indeed, by bursting in, the parents managed to wipe out the last
shreds ofreason, and in the end, the police had to be called, with all
the neighbours witnessing the outrageous scandal.



          3.  Marcelle's Smell

My own parents had not turned up that evening with the pack.
Nevertheless, Ijudged it prudent to decamp and elude the wrath of
an awful father, the epitome ofa senile Catholic general. I entered
our villa by the back door and filched a certain amount of money.
Next, quite convinced they would look for me everywhere but
there, I took a bath in my father's bedroom. Finally, by around ten
o'clock, I was out in thc open country, having left the following
notc on my mother's bedside table: "I beseech you not to send the
police after me for I am carrying a gun, and the first bullet will be
for the policeman, thc second for myself."
  I have never had any aptitude for what is known as striking a
pose, and in this circumstance in particular, I only wished to keep
my family at bay, for they relentlessly hated scandal. Still, having


written the note with the greatest levity and not without laughing,
I thought it might not be such a bad idea to poeket my fathes's
revolver.

  I walked along the seashore most of the night, but without
getting very far from X because of all the windings of the coast. I
was merely trying to soothe a violent agitation, a strange, spectral
delirium in which, willy-nilly, phantasms of Simone and Marcelle
took shape with gruesome expressions. Little by little, I even
thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I
managed to lose any sense ofwords like hope or despair, but in my
weariness, I realized that my life had to have some meaning all the
same, and would have one if only certain events, defined as
desirable, were to occur. I finally accepted being so extraordinarily
haunted by the names Simone and Marcelle. Since it was no use
laughing, I could keep going only by accepting or feigning to
imagine a fantastic compromise that would confusedly link my
most disconcerting moves to theirs.

  I slept in a wood during the day, and at nightfall I went to
Simone's plaee: I passed through the garden by climbing over the
wall. My friend's bedroom was lit, and so I cast some pebbles
through the window. A few seconds later she came down and
almost wordlessly we headed towards the beach. We were
delighted to see one another again. It was dark out, and from time
to time I lifted her dress and took hold of her cunt, but it didn't
make me come-quite the opposite. She sat down and I stretched
out at her feet. I soon felt that I could not keep back my sobs, and I
really cried for a long time on the s·nd.
  "What's wrong?" asked Simone.
  And she gave me a playful kick. Her foot struck the gun in my
pocket and a fearful bang made us shriek at the same time. I wasn't
wounded but I was up on my feet as though in a different world.
Simone stood before me, frighteningly pale.
  That evening we didn't even think of masturbating each other   ,
but we remained in an endless embrace, mouth to mouth,
something we had never done before.


  This is how I lived for several days: Simone and I would come
home late at night and sleep in her room, where I would stay
locked in until the following night. Simone would bring me food,
her mother, having no authority over her (the day ofthe scandal,
she had gone for a walk the instant she heard the shrieks), accepted
the situation without even trying to fathom the mystery. As for the
servants, money had for some time been ensuring their devotion to
Simone.
  In fact, it was they who told us ofthe circumstances of Marcelle's
confinement and even the name ofthe sanatorium. From the very
first day, all we worried about was Marcelle: her madness, the
loneliness of her body, the possibilities of getting to her, helping
her to escape, perhaps. One day, when I tried to rape Simone in her
bed, she brusquely slipped away:
  "You're  totally  insane,  little  man,"  she  cried,  "I'm  not
interested-here, in a bed like this, like a housewife and mother! I'll
only do it with Marcelle!"
  "What are you talking about?" I asked, disappointed, but
basically agreeing with her.
  She came back affectionately and said in a gentle, dreamy voice:
  "Listen, she won't be able to help pissing when she sees us . . .
doing it."
  I felt a hot, enchanting liquid run down my legs, and when she
was done, I got up and in turn watered her body, which she
complaisantly turned to the unchaste and faintly murmuring spurt
on her skin. After thus flooding her cunt, I smeared come all over
her face. Full of muck, she climaxed in a liberating frenzy. She
deeply inhaled our pungent and happy odour: "You smell like
Marcelle," she buoyantly confided after a hefty climax, her nose
under my wet arse.

  Obviously Simone and I were sometimes taken with a violent
desire to fuck. But we no longer thought it could be done without
Marcelle, whose piercing cries kept grating on our ears, for they
were linked to our most violent desires. Thus it was that our sexual
dream kept changing into a nightmare. Marcelle's smile, her
freshness, her sobs, the sense ofshame that made her redden and,


painfully red, tear off her own clothes and surrender lovely blond
buttocks to impure hands, impure mouths, beyond all the tragic
delirium that had made her lock herselfin the wardrobe to toss off
with such abandon that she could not help pissing-all these things
warped our desires, so that they endlessly racked us: Simone,
whose conduct during the scandal had been more obscene than
cver (sprawled out, she had not even covered herself, in fact she had
flung her legs apart)-Simone could not forget that the unforeseen
orgasm provoked by her own brazenness, by Marcelle's howls and
the nakedness ofher writhing limbs, had been more powerful than
anything she had ever managed to picture before. And her cunt
would not open to me unless Marcelle's ghost, raging, reddening,
frenzied, came to make her brazenness overwhelming and far-
reaching, as if the sacrilege were to render everything generally
dreadful and infamous.

  At any rate, the swampy regions ofthe cunt (nothing resembles
them more than the days offlood and storm or even the suffocating
gaseous eruptions ofvolcanoes, and they never turn active except,
like storms or volcanoes, with something of catastrophe or
disaster)-those heartbreaking regions, which Simone, in an
abandon presaging only violence,  allowed  me to stare at
hypnotically, were nothing for me now but the profound,
subtenanean empirc of a Marcelle who was tormented in prison
and at the mercy of nightmares. There was only one thing I
understood: how utterly the orgasms ravaged the girl's face with
sobs interrupted by horrible shrieks.
  And Simonc, for her part, no longer viewed the hot, acrid comc
that she caused to spurt from my cock without seeing it muck up
Marcelle's mouth and eunt.
  "You could smack her face with your come," she confided to
me, while smearing her cunt  "till it sizzles," as she put it.


            4. A Sunspot

Other girls and boys no longer interested us. All we could think of
was Marcelle, and already we childishly imagined her hanging
herself, the secret burial, the funeral apparitions. Finally, one
evening, after getting the precise information, we took our
bicycles and pedalled off to the sanatorium where our friend was
confined. In less than an hour, we had ridden the twenty kilometres
separating us from a sort of castle within a walled park on an
isolated cliff overlooking the sea. We had learned that Marcelle
was in Room 8, but obviously we would have to get inside the
building to find her. Now all we could hope for was to climb in her
window after sawing through the bars, and we were at a loss how
to identify her window among thirty others, when our attention
was drawn to a strange apparition. We had scaled the wall and


were now in the park, among trees buffeted by a violent wind,
when we spied a second-storey window opening and a shadow
holding a sheet and fastening it to one of the bars. The sheet
promptly smacked in the gusts, and the window was shut before
we could recognize the shadow.

  It is hard to imagine the harrowing racket of that vast white
sheet caught in the squall. It greatly outroared the fury ofthe sea or
the wind in the trees. That was the first time I saw Simone racked
by anything but her own lewdness: she huddled against me with a
beating heart and gaped at the huge phantom raging in the night as
though dementia itself had hoisted its colours on this lugubrious
chateau.
  We were motionless, Simone cowering in my arms and I half
haggard, when all at once the wind seemed to tatter the clouds, and
the moon, with a revealing clarity, poured sudden light on
something so bizarre and so excruciating for us that an abrupt,
violent sob choked up in Simone's throat: at the centre ofthe sheet
flapping and banging in the wind, a broad wet stain glowed in the
translucent moonlight. . . .
  A few seconds later, new black clouds plunged everything into
darkness, but I stayed on my feet, suffocating, feeling my hair in
the wind, and weeping wretchedly, like Simone herself, who had
collapsed in the grass, and for the first time, her body was quaking
with huge, childlike sobs.

  It was our unfortunate friend, no doubt about it, it was Marcelle
who had opened tfiat lightless window, Marcelle who had tied that
stunning signal of distress to the bars of her prison. She had
obviously tossed off in bed with such a disorder of her senses that
she had entirely inundated herself, and it was then that we saw her
hang the sheet from the window to let it dry.
  As for myself, I was at a loss about what to do in such a park,
with that bogus chateau de plaisance and its repulsively barred
windows. I walked around the building, leaving Simone upset and
sprawling on the grass. I had no practical goal, Ijust wanted to takc
a breath of air by myself. But then, on the side of the chateau, I


stumbled upon an unbarred open window on the ground floor; I
felt for the gun in my pocket and I entered cautiously: it was a very
ordinary drawing-room. An electric flashlight helped me to reach
an antechamber; then a stairway. I could not distinguish anything,
I did not get anywhere, the rooms were not numbered. Besides, I
was incapable ofunderstanding anything, as though I were under a
spell: at that moment, I could not even understand why I had the
idea of removing my trousers and continuing that anguishing
exploration only in my shirt. And yet I stripped off my clothes,
piece by piece, leaving them on a chair, keeping only my shoes on.
With a flashlight in my left hand and the revolver in my right
hand, I wandered airnlessly, haphazardly. A rustle made me switch
offmy lamp quickly. I stood motionless, whiling away the time by
listening to my erratic breath. Long, anxious minutes wore by
without my hearing any more noise, and so I flashed my light back
on, but a faint cry sent me fleeing so swiftly that I forgot my clothes
on the chair.
  I sensed I was being followed: so I hurriedly climbed out
through the window and hid in a garden lane; but no sooner had I
turned to observe what might be happening in the chateau than I
spied a naked woman in the window frame; shejumped into the
park as I had done and ran off towards a thorn bush.

  Nothing was more bizarre for me in those utterly thrilling
moments than my nudity against the wind on the path of that
unknown garden. It was as if I had left the earth, especially because
the squall was as violent as ever, but warm enough to suggest a
brutal entreaty. I did not know what to do with the gun which I
still held in my hand, for I had no pockets left; by charging after the
woman who had run past me unrecognized, I would obviously be
hunting her down to kill her. The roar of the wrathful elements,
the raging of the trees and the sheet, also hetped to prevent me
from discerning anything distinct in my will or in my gestures.

  All at once, I halted, out of breath: I had reached the bushes
where the shadow had disappeared. Excited by my revolver, I
began looking about, when suddenly it seemed as ifall reality were


tearing apart: a hand, moistened by saliva, had grabbed my cock
and was rubbing it, a slobbering, buming kiss was planted on the
root of my arse, the naked chest and legs of a woman pressed
against my legs with an orgasmic jolt. I scarcely had time to spin
around when my come burst in the face ofmy wonderful Simone:
clutching my revolver, I was swept up by a thrill as violent as the
storm, my teeth chattered and my lips foamed, with twisted arms I
gripped my gun convulsively, and, willy-nilly, three blind,
horrifying shots were fired in the direction of the ch’teau.

  Drunk and limp, Simone and I had fled from one another and
raced across the park like dogs; the squall was far too wild now for
the gunshots to awake any of the sleeping tenants in the ch’teau,
even if the bangs had been audible inside. But when we in-
stinctively looked up at Marcelle's window above the sheet
slamming in the wind, we were greatly surprised to see that one of
the bullets had left a star-shaped crack in one of the panes. The
window shook, opened, and the shadow appeared a second time.
  Dumbstruck, as though about to see Marcelle bleed and fall dead
in the windowframe, we remained standing under the strange,
nearly motionless apparition. Because of the furious wind, we
were incapable ofeven making ourselves heard.
  "What did you do with your clothes?" I asked Simone an instant
later. She said she had been looking for me and, unable to track me
down, she had finally gone to search the interior ofthe ch’teau; but
before clambering through the window, she had undressed,
thinking she "would feel more free". And when she had come
&127back out after me, terrified by me, she found that the wind had
carried offher dress. Meanwhile, she kept observing Marcelle, and
it never crossed her mind to ask me why I was naked.
  The girl in the window disappeared. A moment that seemed
unending crawled by: she switched on the light in her room.
Finally, she carrie back to breathe the open air and gaze at the
ocean. Her sleek, pallid hair was caught in the wind, we could
make out her features: she had not changed, but now there was
something wild in her eyes, something restless, contrasting with
the still childlike simplicity of her features. She looked thirteen


rather than sixteen. Under her nightgown, we could distinguish
her thin but full body, firm, unobtrusive, and as beautiful as her
fixed stare.
  When she finally caught sight of us, the surprise seemed to
restore life to her face. She called, but we couldn't hear. We
beckoned. She blushed up to her ears. Simone, weeping almost,
while I lovingly caressed her forehead, sent her kisses, to which she
responded without smiling. Next, Simone ran her hand down her
belly to her pubic hair. Marcelle imitated her, and poising one foot
on the sill, she exposed a leg sheathed in a white silk stocking
almost up to her blond cunt. Curiously, she was wearing a white
belt and white stockings, whereas black-haired Simone, whose
cunt was in my hand, was wearing a black belt and black stockings.
  Meanwhile, the two girls were masturbating with terse, brusque
gestures, face to face in the howling night. They were nearly
motionless, and tense, and their eyes gaped with unrestrainedjoy.
But soon, some invisible monstrosity appeared to be pulling
Marcelle away from the bars, though her left hand clutched them
with all her might. We saw her tumble back into her delirium.
And all that remained before us was an empty, glowing window, a
rectangular hole piercing the opaque night, showing our aching
eyes a world composed of lightning and dawn.


        5.  A Trickle of Blood

Urine is deeply associated for me with saltpetre; and lightning, I
don't know why, with an antique chamber pot of unglazed
earthenware, lying abandoned one rainy autumn day on the zinc
roof of a provinci·l wash house. Since that first night at the
sanatorium, those wrenching images were closely knit, in the
obscurest part ofmy brain, with the cunt and the drawn and dismal
expression I had sometimes caught on Marcelle's face. But then   ,
this chaotic and dreadful landscape of my imagination was
suddenly inundated by a stream of light and blood, for Marcelle
could come only by drenching herself, not with blood, but with a
spurt ofurine that was limpid and even illuminated for me, at first
violent and jerky like hiccups, then free and relaxed and coinciding
with an outburst of superhuman happiness. It is not astonishing


that the bleakest and most leprous aspects ofa dream are merely an
urging in that direction, an obstinate waiting for total joy, like the
vision of that glowing hole, the empty window, for example, at
the very moment when Marcelle lay sprawling on the floor,
endlessly inundating it.

  But that day, in the rainless tempest, Simone and I, our clothing
lost, were forced to leave the chateau, fleeing like animals through
the hostile darkness, our imaginations haunted by the despondency
that was bound to take hold of Marcelle again, making the
wretched inmate almost an embodiment ofthe fury and terror that
kept driving our bodies to endless debauchery. We soon found our
bicycles and could offer one another the irritating and theoretieally
unclean sight of a naked though shod body on a machine. We
pedalled rapidly, without laughing or speaking, peculiarly satisfied
with our mutual presence, akin to one another in the common
isolation oflewdness, weariness, and absurdity.
  Yet we were both literally perishing offatigue. In the middle of
a slope, Simone halted, saying she had the shivers. Our faces, backs,
and legs were bathed in sweat, and we vainly ran our hands over
one another, over the various parts of our soaked and burning
bodies; despite a more and more vigorous massage, she was all
trembling flesh and chattering teeth. I stripped off one of her
stockings to wipe her body, which gave out a hot odour recalling
the beds ofsickness or ofdebauchery. Little by little, however, she
came around to a more bearable state, and finally she offered me
her lips as a token of gratitude.

  I was still extremely agitated. We had ten more kilometres to
go, and in the state we were in, we obviously had to reach X by
dawn. I could barely keep upright and despaired ofever reaehing
the end ofthis ride through the impossible. We had abandoned the
real world, the one made up solely ofdressed people, and the time
elapsed since then was already so remote as to seem almost beyond
reach. Our personal hallucination now developed as boundlessly as
perhaps the total nightmare of human soeiety, for instance, with
earth, sky, and atmosphere.


  A leather seat clung to Simone's bare cunt, which was inevitably
jerked by the legs pumping up and down on the spinning pedals.
Furthermore, the rear wheel vanished indefinitely to my eyes, not
only in the bicycle fork but virt™ally in the crevice ofthe cyclist's
naked bottom: the rapid whirling of the dusty tire was also directly
comparable to both the thirst in my throat and the erection of my
penis, destined to plunge into the depths ofthe cunt sticking to the
bicycle seat. The wind had died down somewhat, and part ofthe
starry sky was visible. And it struck me that death was the sole
outcome ofmy erection, and if Simone and I were killed, then thc
universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be
replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and
realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours,
something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a
geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding
point  of life  and  death,  being  and  nothingness),  perfectly
fulgurating.
  Yet these images were, of course, tied to the contradiction of a
prolonged state of exhaustion and an absurd rigidity of my penis.
Now it was difficult for Simone to see this rigidity, partly because
ofthe darkness, and partl› because ofthe swift rising ofmy left leg,
which kept hiding my stiffness by turning the pedal. Yet I felt I
could see her eyes, aglow in the darkness, peer back constantly, no
matter how fatigued, at this breaking point of my body, and I
realized she was tossing off more and more violently on the seat,
which was pincered between her buttocks. Like myself, she had
not yet drained the tempest evoked by the shamelessness of her
cunt, and at times she let out husky moans; she was literally torn
away byjoy, and her nude body was hurled upon an embankment
with an awful scraping ofsteel on the pebbles and a piercing shriek.

  I found her inert, her head hanging down, a thin trickle ofblood
running from the corner ofher mouth. Horrified to the limit ofmy
strength, I pulled up one arm, but it fell back inert. I threw myself
upon the lifeless body, trembling with fear, and as I clutched it in
an embrace, I was overcome with bloody spasms, my lower lip
drooling and my teeth bared like a leering moron.


  Meanwhile, Simone was slowly coming to: her arm touched me
in an involuntary movement, and I quickly returned from the
torpor overwhelming me after I had besmirched what I thought
was a corpse. No injury, no bruise marked the body, which was
still clad in the garter belt and a single stocking. I took her in my
arms and carried her down the road, heedless of my fatigue; I
walked as fast as I could because the day wasjust breaking, but only
a superhuman effort allowed me to reach the villa and happily put
my marvellous friend alive into her very own bed.
  The sweat was pouring from my face and all over my body, my
eyes were bloody and swollen, my ears deafened, my teeth
chattering, my temples and my heart drumming away. But since I
hadjust rescued the person I loved most in the world, and since I
thought we would soon be seeing Marcelle, I lay down next to
Simone's bodyjust as I was, soaked and full ofcoagulated dust, and
soon I drifted off into vague nightmares.


 6.  Simone

One ofthe most peaceful eras ofmy life was the period following
Simone's minor accident, which only left her ill. Whenever her
mother came, I would step into the bathroom. Usually, I took
advantage ofthese moments to piss or even bathe; the first time the
woman tried to enter, she was immediately stopped by her
daughter:
  "Don't go in," she said, "there's a naked man in there."
  Each time, however, the mother was dismissed before long, and
I would take my place again in a chair next to the sickbed. I smoked
cigarettes, went through newspapers, and ifthere were any items
about crime or violence, I would read them aloud. From time to
time, I would carry a feverish Simone to the bathroom to help her
pee, and then I would earefully wash her on the bidet. She was


extremely weak and naturally I never stroked her seriously; but
nevertheless, she soon delighted in having me throw eggs into the
toilet bowl, hard-boiled eggs, which sank, and shells sucked out in
various degrees to obtain varying levels ofimmersion. She would
sit for a long time, gazing at the eggs. Then she would settle on the
toilet to view them under her cunt between the parted thighs; and
finally, she would have me flush the bowl.
  Another game was to crack a fresh egg on the edge ofthe bidet
and empty it under her: sometimes she would piss on it, sometimes
she made me strip naked and swallow the raw egg from the
bottom ofthe bidet. She did promise that as soon as she was well
again, she would do the same for me and also for Marcelle.

  At that time, we imagined Marcelle, with her dress tucked up,
but her body covered and her feet shod: we would put her in a bath
tub halffilled with fresh eggs, and she would pee while crushing
them. Simone also day-dreamed about my holding Marcelle, this
time with nothing on but her garter-belt and stockings, her cunt
aloft, her legs bent, and her head down; Simone herself, in a
bathrobe drenched in hot water and thus clinging to her body but
exposing her bosom, would then gec up on a white enamelled chair
with a cork seat. I would arouse her breasts from a distance by
lifting the tips on the heated barrel of a long service revolver that
had been loaded and just fired (first of all, this would shake us up,
and secondly, it would give the barrel a pungent smell ofpowder).
At the same time, she would pour a jar of dazzling white creme
fraiche on Marcelle's grey anus, and she would also urinate freely in
her robe or, ifthe robe were a ar on Marcelle s back or head, while
I could piss on Marcelle from the other side (I would certainly piss
on her breasts). Furthermore, Marcelle herselfcould fully inundate
me if she liked, for while I held her up, her thighs would be
gripping my neck. And she could also stick my cock in her mouth,
and what not.
  It was after such dreams that Simone would ask me to bed her
down on blankets by the toilet, and she would rest her head on the
rim of the bowl and fix her wide eyes on the white eggs. I myself
settled cornfortably next to her so that our cheeks and temples


might touch. We were calmed by the long contemplation. The
gulping gurgle of the flushing water always amused Simone,
making her forget her obsession and ultimately restoring her high
spirits.

  At last, one day at six, when the oblique sunshine was directly
lighting the bathroom, a half sucked egg was suddenly invaded by
the water, and after filling up with a bizarre noise, it was
shipwrecked before our very eyes. This incident was so extra-
ordinarily meaningful to Simone that her body tautened and she
had a long climax, virtually drinking my left eye between her lips.
Then, without leaving the eye, which was sucked as obstinately as
a breast, she sat down, wrenching my head toward her on the seat,
and she pissed noisily on the bobbing eggs with total vigour and
satisfaction.
  By then she could be regarded as cured, and she demonstrated
herjoy by speaking to me at length about various intimate things,
whereas ordinarily she never spoke about herselfor me. Smiling,
she admitted that an instant ago, she had felt a strong urge to relieve
herself completely, but had held back for the sake of greater
pleasure. Truly, the urge bloated her belly and particularly made
her cunt swell up like a ripe fruit; and when I passed my hand under
the sheets and her cunt gripped it firm and tight, she remarked that
she was still in the same state and that it was inordinately pleasant.
Upon my asking what the word urinate reminded her of, she
replied: terminate, the eyes, with a razor, something red, the sun.
And egg? A calf's eye, because ofthe colour ofthe head (the calfs
head) and also because the white of the egg was the white of the
eye, and the yolk the eyeball. The eye, she said, was egg-shaped.
She asked me to promise that when we could go outdoors, I would
fling eggs into the sunny air and break them with shots from my
gun, and when I replied that it was out ofthe question, she talked
on and on, trying to reason me into it. She played gaily with
words, speaking about brolzen eggs, and then hrolzen eyes, and her
arguments became more and more unreasonable.
  She added that, for her, the smell of the arse was the smell of
powder, a jet of urine a "gunshot seen as a light"; each of her


buttocks was a peeled hard-boiled egg. We agreed to send for hot
soft-boiled eggs without shells, for the toilet, and she promised that
when she now sat on the seat, she would ease herselffully on those
eggs. Her cunt was still in my hand and in the state she had
described; and after her promise, a storm began brewing little by
little in my innermost depth-I was reflecting more and more.
  It is fair to say that the room of a bedridden invalid is just the
right place for gradually rediscovering childhood lewdness. I
gently sucked Simone's breast while waiting for the soft-boiled
eggs, and she ran her fingers through my hair. Her mother was the
one who brought us the eggs, but I didn't even turn around, I
assumed it was a  maid,  and I kept on sucking the breast
contentedly. Nor was I ultimately disturbed when I recognized the
voice, but since she remained and I couldn't forego even one
instant of my pleasure, I thought of pulling down my trousers as
for a call of nature, not ostentatiously, but merely hoping she
would leave and delighted at going beyond all limits. When she
finally decided to walk out and vainly ponder over her dismay
elsewhere, the night was already gathering, and we switched on
the lamp in the bathroom. Simone settled on the toilet, and we
each ate one ofthe hot eggs with salt. With the three that were left,
I softly caressed her body, gliding them between her buttocks and
thighs, then I slowly dropped them into the water one by one.
Finally, after viewing them for a while, immersed, white, and still
hot (this was the first time she was seeing them peeled, that is
naked, drowned under her beautiful cunt), Simone continued the
immersion with a plopping noise akin to that of the soft-boiled
eggs.

  But I ought to say that nothing of the sort ever happened
between us again, and, with one exception, no further eggs ever
came up in our conversations; nevertheless, ifwe chanced to notice
one or more, we could not help reddening when our eyes met in a
silent and murky interrogation.
  At any rate, it will be shown by the end of this tale, that this
interrogation was not to remain without an answer indefinitely,
and above all, that this unexpected answer is necessary for


measuring the immensity of the void that yawned before us,
without our knowledge, during our singular entertainments with
the eggs.


            7.  Marcelle

By a sort of shared modesty, Simone and I had always avoided
talking about the most important objects of our obsessions. That
was why the word egg was dropped from our vocabulary, and we
never spoke about the kind ofinterest we had in one another, even
less about what Marcelle meant to us. We spent all of Simone's
illness in a bedroom, looking forward to when we could go back to
Marcelle, as nervously as we had once waited for the end ofthe last
lesson in school, and so all we talked about was the day we would
return to the chateau. I had prepared a small cord, a thick, knotted
rope, and a hacksaw, all of which Simone examined with the
keenest interest, peering attentively at each knot and section ofthe
rope. I also managed to find the bicycles, which I had concealed in a
thicket the day ofour tumble, and I meticulously oiled the various


parts, the gcars, ball bearings, sprockets, etc. I then attached a pair
of foot-rests to my own bicycle so that I could seat one ofthe girls
behind . Nothing could be easier, at least for the time being, than to
have Marcelle living in Simone's room secretly like myself. We
would simply be forced to share the bed (and we would inevitably
have to use the same bathtub, etc.).

But a good six weeks passed before Simone could pedal after me
reasonably well to the sanatorium. Like thc previous time, we left
at night: in fact, I still kept out ofsight during the day, and this time
there was certainly every reason for remaining inconspicuous. I
was in a hurry to arrive at the place that I dimly regarded as a
"haunted castle," due to the association of the words sanatorium
and castle, and also the memory of the phantom sheet and the
thought ofthe lunatics in a huge silent dwelling at night. But now,
to my surprise, even though I was ill at ease anywhere in the world,
I felt at bottom as ifl were going home. And that was indeed my
impression when wejumped over the park wall and saw the huge
building stretching out ahead beyond the trees: only Marcelle's
window was still aglow and wide open. Taking some pebbles from
a lane, we threw them into her chamber and they promptly
summoned the girl, who quickly rÈcognized us and obeyed our
gesture of putting a finger on our lips. But of course we also held
up the knotted rope to let her understand what we were doing this
time. I hurled the cord up to her with the aid of a stone, and she
threw it back after looping it around a bar. There were no
difficulties, the big rope was hoisted by Marcelle and fastened to
the bar, and I scrambled all the way up.

  Marcelle flinched when I tried to kiss her. She merely watched
me very attentively as I started filing away at a bar. Since she only
had a bathrobe on, I softly told her to get dressed so she could come
with us. She simply turned her back to pull flesh-coloured
stockings over her legs, securing them on a belt of bright red
ribbons that brought out a rump with a perfeet shape and an
exceptionally fine skin. I continued filing, bathed in sweat because
of both my effort and what I saw. Her back still towards me,


Marcelle pulled a blouse over long, flat hips, whose straight lines
were admirably terminated by the buttocks when she had one foot
on a chair. She did not slip on any panties, only a pleated grey
woollen skirC and a sweater with very tiny black, white, and red
checks. After stepping into flat-heeled shoes, she came over to the
window and sat down close enough to me so that my one hand
could caress her head, her lovely short hair, so sleek and so blond
that it actually looked pale. She gazed at me affectionately and
seemed touched by my wordlessjoy at seeing her.

  "Now we can get married, can't we?" she finally said, gradually
won over. "It's very bad here, we suffer. . . ."
  At that point, I would never have dreamt for even an instant that
I could do anything but devote the rest of my life to such an unreal
apparition. She let me give her a long kiss on her forehead and her
eyes, and when one of her hands happened to touch my leg, she
looked at me wide-eyed, but before withdrawing her hand, she ran
it over my clothes absent-mindedly.

  After long work, I succeeded in cutting through the horrid bar. I
pulled it aside with all my strength, which left enough space for her
to squeeze through. She did so, and I helped her descend, climbing
down underneath, which forced me to see the top ofher thigh and
even to touch it when I supported her. Reaching the ground, she
snuggled in rny arms and kissed my mouth with all her strength,
while Simone, sitting at our feet, her eyes wet with tears, flung her
hands around Marcelle's legs, hugging her knees and thighs. At
first, she only rubbed her cheek against the thigh, but then, unable
to restrain a huge surge ofjoy, she finally yanked the body apart,
pressing her lips to the cunt, which she greedily devoured.
  However,  Simone  and  I  realized  that  Marcelle  grasped
absolutely nothing of what was going on and she was actually
incapable oftelling one situation from another. Thus she smiled,
imagininghow aghast the director ofthe "haunted castle" would
be to see her strolling through the garden with her husband. Also,
she was scarcely aware of Simone's existenee; mirthfully, she at
times mistook her for a wolfbecause ofher black hair, her silence,


and because Simone's head was docilely rubbing Marcelle's thigh   ,
like a dog nuzzling his master's leg. Nonetheless, when I spoke to
Marcelle about the "haunted castle," she did not ask me to explain;
she understood that this was the building where she had been
wickedly locked up. And whenever she thought ofit, her terror
pulled her away from me as though she had seen something pass
through the trees. I watched her uneasily, and since my face was
already hard and sombre, I too frightened her, and almost at the
same instant she asked me to protect her u&127hen the Cardinal returned.

  We were lying in the moonlight by the edge of a forest. We
wanted to rest a while during our trip back and we especially
wanted to embrace and stare at Marcelle.
  "But who is the Cardinal?" Simone asked her.
  "The man who locked me in the wardrobe," said Marcelle.
  "But why is he a cardinal?" I cried.
  She replied: "Because he is the priest ofthe guillotine."

  I now recalled Marcelle's dreadful fear when she left the
wardrobe, and particularly two details: I had been wearing a
blinding red carnival novelty, aJacobine liberty cap; furthermore,
because of the deep cuts in a girl I had raped, my face, clothes,
hands-all parts of me were stained with blood.
  Thus, in her terror, Marcelle confused a cardinal, a priest of the
guillotine, with the blood-smeared executioner wearing a liberty
cap: a bizarre overlapping of piety and abomination for priests
explained the confusion, which, for me, had remained attached to
both my hard reality and the horror continually aroused by the
compulsiveness of my actions.


     8.  The Open Eyes of the Dead Woman

For a moment, I was totally helpless after this unexpected
discovery; and so was Simone. Marcelle was now halfasleep in my
arms, so that we didn't know what to do. Her dress was pulled up
exposing the grey pussy between red ribbons at the end of long
thighs, and it had thereby become an extraordinary hallucination
in a world so frail that a mere breath might have changed us into
light. We didn't dare budge, and all we desired was for that unreal
immobility to last as long as possible, and for Marcelle to fall sound
asleep.
  My mind reeled in some kind ofexhausting vertigo, and I don't
know what the outcome would have been if Simone, whose
worried gaze was darting between my eyes and Marcelle's nudity,
had not made a sudden, gentle movement: she opened her thighs,


saying in a blank voice that she couldn't hold back any longer.
  She soaked her dress in a long convulsion that fully denuded her
and promptly made me spurt a wave of semen in my clothes.

  I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my
eyes staring straight up at the Milky Way, that strange breaeh of
astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by
the ring ofconstellations: that open crack at the summit ofthe sky,
apparently made ofammoniacal vapours shining in the immensity
(in empty space, where they burst forth absurdly like a rooster's
crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own
dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical
images back to infinity. The nauseating crow of a rooster in
particular coincided with my own life, that is to say, now, the
Cardinal, because of the crack, the red colour, the discordant
shrieks he provoked in the wardrobe, and also because one cuts the
throats of roosters.

  To others, the universe seems decent because decent people h·ve
gelded eyes. That is why they fear lewdness. They are never
frightened by the crowing of a rooster or when strolling under a
starry heaven. In general, people savour the "pleasures ofthe flesh"
only on condition that they be insipid.
  But as ofthen, no doubt existed for me: I did not care for what is
known as "pleasures ofthe flesh" because they really are insipid; I
cared only for what is classified as "dirty". On the other hand, I was
not even satisfied with thc usual debauehery, because the only
thing it dirties is debauchery itself, while, in some way or other,
anything sublime and perfectly pure is left intact by it. My kind of
debauchery soils not only my body and my thoughts, but also
anything I may conceive in its course, that is to say, the vast starry
universe, which merely serves as a backdrop.
  I associate the moon with the vaginal blood of mothers, sisters,
that is, the menstrua with their sickening stench. . . .
  I loved Marcelle without mourning her. Ifshe died, then it was
my fault. Ifl had nightmares, ifl sometimes locked myselfup in a
cellar for hours at a time precisely because I was thinking about


Marcelle, I would nevertheless still be prepared to start all over
again, for instance by ducking her hair, head down, in a toilet
bowl. But since she is dead, I have nothing left but certain
catastrophes that bring me to her at times when I least expect it.
Otherwise, I cannot possibly perceive the least kinship now
between the dead girl and myself, which makes most of my days
inevitably dreary.

  I will merely report here that Marcelle hanged herself after a
dreadful incident. She recognized the huge bridal wardrobe, and
her teeth started chattering: she instantly realized upon looking at
me that 1 was the man she called the Cardinal, and when she began
shrieking, there was no other way for me to stop that desperate
howling than to leave the room. By the time Simone and I
returned she was hanging inside the wardrobe. . . .
  I cut the rope, but she was quite dead. We laid her out on the
carpet. Simone saw I was getting a hard-on and she started tossing
me off: I too stretehed out on the carpet. It was impossible to do
otherwise; Simone was still a virgin, and I fucked her for the first
time, next to the corpse. It was very painful for both ofus, but wc
were glad precisely because it was painful. Simone stood up and
gazed at the corpse. Marcelle had becomc a total stranger, and in
fact, so had Simone at that moment. I no longer cared at all for
either Simone or Marcelle. Even ifsomeone had told me it was I
who hadjust died, I would not even have been astonished, so alien
were these events to me. I observed Simone, and, as I precisely
recall, my only pleasure was in the smutty things Simone was
doing, for the corpse was very irritating to her, as though she could
not bear the thought that this creature, so similar to her, could not
feel her anymore. The open eyes were more irritating than
anything else. Even when Simone drenched the face, those eyes,
extraordinarily, did not close. We were perfectly calm, all three of
us, and that was the most hopeless part ofit. Any boredom in the
world is linked, for me, to that moment and, above all, to an
obstacle as ridiculous as death. But that won't prevent me from
thinking back to that time with no revulsion and even with a sense
of complicity. Basically, the lack of excitement made everything


far more absurd, and thus Marcelle was closer to me dead than in
her lifetime, inasmuch as absurd existence, so I imagine, has all the
prerogatives.
  As for the fact that Simone dared to piss on the corpse, whether
in boredom or, at worst, in irritation: it mainly goes to prove how
impossible it was for us to understand what was happening, and of
course, it is no more understandable today than it was then.
Simone, being truly incapable of conceiving death such as one
normally considers it, was frightened and furious, but in no way
awe-struck. Marcelle belonged to us so deeply in our isolation that
we could not see her as just another corpse. Nothing about her
death could be measured by a common standard, and the
contradictory  impulses  overtaking  us  in  this  circumstance
neutralized one another, leaving us blind and, as it were, very
remote from anything we touched, in a world where gestures have
no carrying power, like voices in a space that is absolutely
soundless.


           9.  Lewd Animals

To avoid the bother ofa police investigation, we instantly took off
for Spain, where Simone was counting on our disappearing with
the help of a fabulously rich Englishman, who had offered to
support her and would be more likely than anyone else to show
interest in our plight.

  The villa was abandoned in the middle ofthe night. We had no
trouble stealing a boat, reaching an obscure point on the Spanish
coast, and burning the vessel with the aid of two drums of petrol
that we had taken along, as a precautionary measure, from the
garage ofthe villa. Simone left me concealed in a wood during the
day and went to look for the Englishman in San Sebastian. She
only came back at nightfall, but driving a magnificent automobile,


with suitcases full oflinen and rich clothing.
  Simone said that Sir Edmund wouldjoin us in Madrid and that
all day long he had been plying her with the most detailed
questions about Marcelle's death, making her draw diagrams and
sketches. Finally he had told a servant to buy a wax mannequin
with a blonde wig; he had then laid the figure out on the floor and
asked Simone to urinate on its face, on the open eyes, in the same
position as she had urinated on the eyes of the corpse: during all
that time, Sir Edmund had not even touched her.

  However, there had been a great change in Simone after
Marcelle's suicide-she kept staring into space all the time, looking
as if she belonged to something other than the terrestrial world,
where almost everything bored her; or if she was still attached to
this world, then purely by way of orgasms, which were rare but
incomparably more violent than before. These orgasms were as
different from normal climaxes as, say, the mirth of savage
Africans from that of Occidentals. In fact, though the savages may
sometimes laugh as moderately as whites, they also have long-
lasting spasms, with all parts ofthe body in violent release, and they
go whirling willy-nilly, flailing their arms about wildly, shaking
their bellies, necks, and chests, and chortling and gulping horribly.
As for Simone, she would first open uncertain eyes, at some lewd
and dismal sight. . . .

  For cxample, Sir Edmund had a cramped, windowless pigsty,
where one day he locked up a petite and luscious streetwalker from
Madrid; wearing only cami-knickers, she collapsed in a pool of
liquid manure under the bellies ofthe grunting swine. Once the
door was shut, Simone had me fuck her again and again in front of
that door, with her arse in the mud, under a fine drizzle of rain,
while Sir Edmund tossed off:
  Gasping and slipping away from me, Simone grabbed her
behind in both hands and threw back her head, which banged
violently against the ground; she tensed breathlessly for a few
seconds, pulling with all her might on the fingernails buried in hcr
buttocks, then tore herselfaway at one swoop and thrashed about


on the ground like a headless chicken, hurting herself with a
terrible bang on the door fittings. Sir Edmund gave her his wrist to
bite on and allay the spasm that kept shaking her, and I saw that her
face was smeared with saliva and blood.
  After these huge fits, she always came to nestle in my arms; she
settled her little bottom comfortably in my large hands and
remained there for a long time without moving or speaking,
huddled like a little girl, but always sombre.

  Sir Edmund deployed his ingenuity at providing us with
obscene spectacles at random, but Simone still preferred bullfights.
There were actually three things about bullfights that fascinated
her: the first, when the bull comes hurtling out ofthe bullpen like a
big rat; the second, when its horns plunge all the way into the flank
ofa mare; the third, when that ludicrous, raw-boned mare gallops
across the arena, lashing out unseasonably and dragging a huge,
vile bundle ofbowels between her thighs in the most dreadful wan
colours, a pearly white, pink, and grey. Simone's heart throbbed
fastest when the exploding bladder dropped its mass of mare's
urine on the sand in one quick plop.

  She was on tenterhooks from start to finish at the bullfight, in
terror (which of course mainly expressed a violent desire) at the
thought ofseeing the toreador hurled up by one ofthe monstrous
lunges ofthe horns when the bull made its endless, blindly raging
dashes at the void ofcoloured cloths. And there is something else I
ought to say: when the bull makes its quick, brutal, thrusts over
and over again into the matador's cape, barely grazing the erect
line ofthe body, any spectator has that feeling oftotal and repeated
lunging typical ofthe game ofcoitus. The utter nearness ofdeath is
also felt in the same way. But these series ofprodigious passes are
rare. Thus, each time they occur, they unleash a veritable delirium
in the arena, and it is well known that at such thrilling instants the
women come by merely rubbing their thighs together.
  Apropos bullfights, Sir Edmund once told Simone that until
quite recently, certain virile Spaniards, mostly occasional amateur
toreadors, used to ask the caretaker ofthe arena to bring them the


fresh, roasted balls of one of the first bulls to be killed. They
received them at their seats, in the front row ofthe arena, and ate
them while watching the killing of the next few bulls. Simone
took a keen interest in this tale, and since we were attending the
first major bullfight of the year that Sunday, she begged Sir
Edmund to get her the balls of the first bull, but added one
condition: they had to be raw.
  "I say," objected Sir Edmund, "whatever do you want with raw
balls? You certainly don't intend to eat raw balls now, do you?"
  "I want to have them before me on a plate," concluded Simone.


          10.  Granero's Eye

On May 7, 1922, the toreadors La Rosa, Lalanda, and Granero
were to fight in the arena of Madrid; the last two were renowned as
the best matadors in Spain, and Granero was generally considered
superior to Lalanda. He had onlyjust turned twenty, yet he was
already extremely popular, being handsome, tall and of a still
childlike simplicity. Simone had been deeply interested in his
story, and, exceptionally, had shown genuine pleasure when Sir
Edmund announced that the celebrated bull-killer had agreed to
dine with us the evening of the fight.

  Granero stood out from the rest of the matadors because there
was nothing ofthe butcher about him; he looked more like a very
manly Prince Charming with a perfectly elegant figure. In this


respect, the matador's costume is quite expressive, for it safeguards
the straight line shooting up so rigid and erect every time the
lunging bull grazes the body and because the pants so tightly
sheathe the behind. A bright red cloth and a brilliant sword (before
the dying bull whose hide steams with sweat and blood) complete
the metamorphosis, bringing out the most captivating feature of
the game. One must also bear in mind the typically torrid Spanish
sky, which never has the colour or harshness one imagines: it isjust
perfectly sunny with a dazzling but mellow sheen, hot, turbid, at
times even unreal when the combined intensities oflight and heat
suggest the freedom ofthe senses.
  Now this extreme unreality of the solar blaze was so closely
attached to everything happening around me during the bullfight
on May 7, that the only objects I have ever carefully preserved are a
round paper fan, halfyellow, halfblue, that Simone had that day,
and a small illustrated brochure with a description of all the
circumstances and  a few  photographs.  Later on,  during an
embarkment, the small valise containing those two souvenirs
tumbled into the sea, and was fished out by an Arab with a long
pole, which is why the objects are in such a bad state. But I need
them to fix that event to the earthly soil, to a geographic point and
a precise date, an event that my imagination compulsively pictures
as a simple vision of solar deliquescence.

 The first bull, the one whose balls Simone looked forward to&127
having served raw on a plate, was a kind of black monster, who
shot out ofthe pen so quickly that despite all efforts and all shouts,
he disembowelled three horses in a row before an orderly fight
could take place; one horse and rider were hurled aloft together,
loudly crashing down behind the horns. But when Granero faced
the bull, the combat was launched with brio, proceeding amid a
frenzy of cheers. The young man sent the furious beast racing
around him in his pink cape; each time, his body was lifted by a sort
ofspirallingjet, and hejust barely eluded a frightful impact. In the
end, the death ofthe solar monster was performed cleanly, with
the beast blinded by the scrap ofred cloth, the sword deep in the
blood-smeared body. An incredible ovation resounded as the bull


staggered to its knees with the uncertainty ofa drunkard, collapsed
with its legs sticking up, and died.

  Simone, who sat between Sir Edmund and myself, witnessed
the killing with an exhilaration at least equal to mine, and she
refused to sit down again when the interminable acclamation for
the young man was over. She took my hand wordlessly and led me
to an outer courtyard of the filthy arena, where the stench of
equine and human urine was suffocating because ofthe great heat. I
grabbed Simone's cunt, and she seized my furious cock through
my trousers. We stepped into a stinking shithouse, where sordid
flies whirled about in a sunbeam. Standing here, I exposed
Simone's cunt, and into her blood-red, slobbery flesh I stuck my
fingers, then my penis, whieh entered that cavern ofblood while I
tossed offher arse, thrusting my bony middle finger deep inside. At
the same time, the roofs ofour mouths cleaved together in a storm
of saliva.
  A bull's orgasm is not more powerful than the one that
wrenched through our loins to tear us to shreds, though without
shaking my thick penis out of.that stuffed vulva, which was gorged
with come.

  Our hearts were still booming in our chests, whieh were equally
buming and equally lusting to press stark naked against wet
unslaked hands, and Simone's cunt was still as greedy as before and
my cock stubbomly rigid, as we retumed to the first row of the
arena. But when we arrived at our places next to Sir Edmund,
there, in broad sunlight, on Simone's seat, lay a white dish
containing two peeled balls, glands the size and shape ofeggs, and
of a pearly whiteness, faintly bloodshot, like the globe of an eye:
they had just been removed from the first bull, a black-haired
creature, into whose body Granero had plunged his sword.
  "Here are the raw balls," Sir Edmund said to Simone in his
British accent.
  Simone was already kneeling before the plate, peering at it in
absorbed interest, but in something of a quandary. It seemed she
wanted to do something but didn't know how to &127o about it   .


which exasperated her. I picked up the dish to let her sit down, but
she grabbed it away from me with a categorical "no" and returned
it to the stone seat.

  Sir Edmund and I were growing annoyed at being the focus of
our neighbours' attentionjust when the bullfight was slackening. I
leaned over and whispered to Simone, asking what had got into
her.
  "Idiot!" she replied. "Can't you see I want to sit on the plate, and
all these people watching!"
  "That's absolutely out ofthe question," I rejoined, "sit down."
  At the same time, I took away the dish and made her sit, and I
stared at her to let her know that I understood, that I remembered
the dish of milk, and that this renewed desire was unsettling me.
Frorn that moment on, neither of us could keep from fidgeting,
and this state of malaise was contagious enough to affect Sir
Edmund. I ought to say that the fight had become boring,
unpugnacious bulls were facing matadors who didn't know what
to do next; and to top it off, since Simone had demanded seats in
the sun, we were trapped in something like an immense vapour of
light and muggy heat, which parched our throats as it bore down
upon us.

  It really was totally out of the question for Simone to lift her
dress and place her bare behind in the dish of raw balls. All she
eould do was hold the dish in her lap. I told her I would like to fuck
her again before Granero returned to fight the fourth bull, but she
refused, and she sat there, keenly involved, despite everything, in
the disembowelments ofhorses, followed, as she childishly put it,
by "death and destruction", namely the cataract ofbowels.
  Little by little, the sun's radiance sucked us into an unreality that
fitted our malaise-the wordless and powerless desire to explode
and get up off our behinds. We grimaced, because our eyes were
blinded and because we were thirsty, our senses ruflfied, and there
was no possibility of quenching our desires. We three had
managed to share in the morose dissolution that leaves no harmony
between the various spasms ofthe body. We were so far gone that


even Granero's return could not pull us out of that stupefying
absorption. Besides, the bull opposite him was distrustful and
seemed unresponsive; the combat went on just as drearily as
before.
  The events that followed were without transition or con-
nection, not because they weren't actually related, but because my
attention was so absent as to remain absolutely dissociated. Injust a
few seconds: first, Simone bit into one of the raw balls, to my
dismay; then Granero advanced towards the bull, waving his
scarlet cloth; finally, almost at once, Simone, with a blood-red face
and a suti&127ocating lewdness, uncovered her long white thighs up to
her moist vulva, into which she slowly and surely fitted the second
pale globule-Granero was thrown back by the bull and wedged
ag·inst the balustrade; the horns struck the balustrade three times at
full speed; at the third blow, one horn plunged into the right eye
and through the head. A shriek of unmeasured horror coincided
with a brieforgasm for Simone, who was lifted up from the stone
seat only to be flung back with a bleeding nose, under a blinding
sun; men instantly rushed over to haul away Granero's body, the
right eye dangling from the head.


     11.  Under the Sun of Seville

Thus, two globes ofequal size and consistency had suddenly been
propelled in opposite directions at once. One, the white ball ofthe
bull, had been thrust into the "pink and dark" cunt that Simone
had bared in the crowd; the other, a human eye, had spurted from
Granero's head with the same force as a bundle ofinnards from a
belly. This coincidence, tied to death and to a sort of urinary
liquefaction of the sky, first brought us back to Marcelle in a
moment that was so briefand almost insubstantial, yet so uneasily
vivid that I stepped forward like a sleepwalker as though about to
touch her at eye level.
  Needless to say, everything was promptly back to normal,
though with blinding obsessions in the hour after Granero's death.
Simone was in such a foul mood that she told Sir Edmund she


wouldn't spend another day in Madrid; she was very anxious to see
Seville because of its reputation as a city of pleasure.
  Sir Edmund took a heady delight in satisfying the whims of"the
simplest and most angelic creature ever to walk the earth," and so
the next day he accompanied us to Seville, where we found an even
more liquefying heat and light than in Madrid. A lavish abundance
of flowers in the streets, geraniums and rose laurels, helped to put
our senses on edge.
  Simone walked about naked under a white dress that was flimsy
enough to hint at the red garter-belt underneath and, in certain
positions, even at her pussy. Furthermore, everything in this city
contributed to making her radiate such sensuality that when we
passed through the torrid streets, I often saw cocks stretching
trousers.
  Indeed, we virtually never stopped having sex. We avoided
orgasms and we went sight-seeing, for this was the only way to
keep from having my penis endlessly immersed in her fur. But we
did take advantage of any opportunities when we were out. We
would leave one convenient place with never any goal but to find
another like it. An empty museum room, a stairway, a garden path,
lined with high bushes, an open church, deserted alleys in the
evenings-we walked until we found the right place, and the
instant we found it, I would open the girl's body by lifting one of
her legs and shoving my cock to the bottom of her cunt in one
swoop. A few moments later, I would pull my steaming member
from its stable, and our promenade would continue almost
aimlessly. Usually, Sir Edmund would follow at a distance in order
to surprise us: he would tum purple, but he never came close. And
ifhe masturbated, he would do it discreetly, not for caution's sake,
of course, but because he never did anything unless standing
isolated and almost utterly steady, with a dreadful muscular
contraction.
  "This is a very interesting place," he said one day in regard to a
church, "it's the church of DonJuan."
  "So what?" replied Simone.
  "Stay here with me," Sir Edmund said to me. "And you
Simone, you ought to go round this church all by yourself."


  "What an awful idea!"
  Nevertheless, however awful the idea, it aroused her curiosity,
and she went in by herself while we waited in the street.

  Five minutes later, Simone reappeared at the threshold of the
church. We were dumbstruck: not only was she guffawing her
head off, but she couldn't speak or stop laughing, so that, partly by
contagion, partly because of the intense light, I began laughing as
hard as she, and so did Sir Edmund to a certain extent.
  "Bloody girl," he said. "Can't you explain? By the by, we're
laughing right over the tomb of Don Juan!"
  And laughing even harder, he pointed at a large church brass at
our feet. It was the tomb ofthe church's founder, who, the guides
claimed, was Don Juan: after repenting, he had himself buried
under the doorstep so that the faithful would trudge over his
corpse when entering or leaving their haunt.
  But now our wild laughter burst out again tÈnfold. In our mirth,
Simone had lightly pissed down her leg, and a tiny trickle ofwater
had landed on the brass.

  We noted a further effect of her accident: the thin dress, being
wet, stuck to her body, and since the cloth was now fully
transparent, Simone's attractive belly and thighs were revealed
with particular lewdness, a dark patch between the red ribbons of
her garter belt.
  "All I can do is go into the church," said Simone, a bit calmer,
"it'll dry."
 We burst into a larger space, where Sir Edmund and I vainly
looked for the comical sight that the girl had been unable to
explain. The room was relatively cool, and the light came from
windows, filtering through curtains of a bright red, transparent
cretonne. The ceiling was of carved woodwork, the walls were
plastered but encumbered with religious gewgaws more or less
gilded. The entire back wall was covered from floor to rafters by
an altar and a giant Baroque retablo ofgilded wood; the involved
and contorted decorations conjured up India, with deep shadows
and golden glows, and the whole altar at first seemed very


mysterious andjust right for sex. At either side ofthe entrance door
hung two famous canvases by the painter ValdËs Leal, pictures of
decomposing corpses: interestingly, one of the eye sockets was
being gnawed through by a rat. Yet in all these things, there was
nothing funny to be found.
  Quite the contrary:  the whole place was sumptuous and
sensuous, the play ofshadows and light from the red curtains, the
coolness and a strong pungent aroma ofblossoming oleander, plus
the dress sticking to Simone's pussy-everything was urging me to
burst loose and bare that wet cunt on the floor, when I spied a pair
of silk shoes at a confessional: the feet of a penitent female.
  "I want to see them leave," said Simone.
  She sat down before me, not far from the confessional, and all I
could do was caress her neck, the line ofher hair, or her shoulders
with my cock. And that put her so much on edge that she told me
to tuck my penis away immediately or she would rub it until I
came.
  I had to sit down and merely look at Simone's nakedness
through the soaked cloth, at its best in the open air, when she
wanted to fan her wet thighs and she uncrossed them and lifted her
dress.
  "You'll see," she said.
  That was why I patiently waited for the key to the puzzle. After
a rather long wait, a very beautiful young brunette stepped out of
the confessional, her hands folded, her face pale and enraptured:
with her head thrown back and her eyes white and vacant, she
slowly eased across the room like an opera ghost. There was
something so truly unexpected about the whole thing that I
desperately squeezed my legs together to keep from laughing,
when the door ofthe confessional opened: someone else emerged,
this time a blond priest, very young, very handsorne, with a long
thin face and the pale eyes ofa saint. His arms were crossed on his
chest, and he remaÏned on the threshold of the booth, gazing at a
fixed point on the ceiling as though a celestial apparition were
about to help him levitate.
  The priest thus moved in the same direction as the woman, and


he would probably have vanished in turn without seeing anything
if Simone, to my great surprise, had not brought him up sharply.
Something unbelievable had occurred to her: she greeted the
visionary courteously and said she wanted to confess.
  The priest, still gliding in his ecstasy, indicated the confessional
with a distant gesture and reentered his tabernacle, softly closing
the door without a word.




12.  Simone's Confession and Sir Edmund's Mass

One can readily imagine my stupor at watching Simone kneel
down by the cabinet of the lugubrious confessor. While she
confessed her sins, I waited, extremely anxious to see the outcome
ofsuch an unexpected action. I assumed this sordid creature was
going to burst from his booth, pounce upon the impious girl, and
flagellate her. I was even getting ready to knoek the dreadful
phantom down and treat him to a few kicks; but nothing of the
sort happened: the booth remained closed, Simone spoke on and
on through the tiny grilled window, and that was all.
  I was exchanging sharply interrogative looks with Sir Edmund
when things began to grow clear: Simone was slowly scratching
her thigh, moving her legs apart; keeping one knee on the prayer
stool, she shifted one foot to the floor, and she was exposing more


and morc ofher legs over her stoekings while still murmuring her
confession. At times she even seemed to be tossing off:
  I softly drew up at the side to try. and see what was happening:
Simone really was masturbating, the left part of her face was
pressed against the grille near the priest's head, her limbs tensed,
her thighs splayed, her fingers rummaging deep in the fur; I was
able to touch her, I bared her cunt for an instant. At that moment, I
distinctly heard her say:
  "Father, I still have not confessed the worst sin ofall."
  A few seconds ofsilence.
  "The worst sin of all is very simply that I'm tossing of3E&127 while
talking to you."
  More seconds ofwhispering inside, and finally almost aloud:
  "Ifyou don't believe me, I can show you."
  And indeed, Simone stood up and spread one thigh before the
eye of the window while masturbating with a quick, sure hand.
  "All  right,  priest,"  eried  Simone,  banging  away  at  the
confessional, "what are you doing in your shack there? Tossing
off, too?"
  But the eonfessional kept its peace.
  "Well, then I'll open."
  And Simone pulled out the door.
  Inside, the visionary, standing there with lowered head, was
mopping a sweat-bathed brow. The girl groped for his cock under
the cassock: he didn't turn a hair. She pulled up the filthy black skirt
so that the long cock stuck out, pink and hard: all he did was throw
back his head with a grimace, and a hiss escaped through his teeth,
but he didn't interfere with Simone, who shoved the bestiality into
her mouth and took long sucks on it.
  Sir Edmund and I were immobile in our stupor. For my part, I
was spellbound with admiration, and I didn't know what else to
do, when the enigmatic Englishman resolutely strode to the
confessional and, after edging Simone aside as delicately as could
be, dragged the larva out of its hole by its wrists, and flung it
brutally at our feet: the vile priest lay there like a cadaver, his teeth
to the ground, not uttering a cry. We promptly carried him to the
vestry.


  His fly was open, his cock dangling, his face livid and drenched
with sweat, he didn't resist, but breathed heavily: we put him in a
large wooden armchair with architectural decorations.
  "Senores,"  the wretch snivelled, "you must think I'm a
hypocrite."
  "No," replied Sir Edmund with a categorical intonation.
  Simone asked him: "What's your name?"
  "Don Aminado," he answered.
  Simone slapped the sacerdotal pig, which gave him another
hard-on. We stripped off all his clothes, and Simone crouched
down and pissed on them like a bitch. Then she wanked and sucked
the pig while I urinated in his nostrils. Finally, to top offthis cold
exaltation, I fucked Simone in the arse while she violently sucked
his cock.
  Meanwhile, Sir Edmund, contemplating the scene with his
characteristic poker face, carefully inspected the room where we
had found refuge. He glimpsed a tiny key hanging from a nail in
the woodwork.
  "What is that key for?' he asked Don Aminado.
  From the expression of dread on the priest's face, Sir Edmund
realized it was the key to the tabernacle.

  The Englishman returned a few moments later, carrying a
ciborium of twisted gold, decorated with a quantity of angels as
naked as cupids. The wretched Don Aminado gaped at this
receptacle of consecrated hosts on the floor, and his handsome
moronic face, already contorted because Simone was flagellating
his cock with her teeth and tongue, was now fully gasping and
panting.
  After barricading the door, Sir Edmund rummaged through the
closets until he finally lit upon a large chalice, whereupon he asked
us to abandon the wretch for an instant.
  "Look," he explained to Simone, "the eucharistic hosts in the
ciborium, and here the chalice where they put white wine."
  "They smell like come",  said Simone, sniffing the unleavened
wafers.
  "Precisely," continued Sir Edmund. "The hosts, as you see, are


nothing other than Christ's sperm in the form of small white
biscuits. And as for the wine they put in the chalice, the ecelesiastics
say it is the blood of Christ, but they are obviously mistaken. If they
really thought it was the blood, they would use red wine, but since
they employ only white wine, they are showing that at the bottom
of their hearts they are quite aware that this is urine."
  The lucidity of this logie was so convincing that Simone and I
required no further explanation. She, armed with the chalice and I
with the ciborium, the two ofus marched over to Don Aminado,
who was still inert in his armchair, faintly agitated by a slight
quiver through his body.
  Simone began by slamming the base of the chalice against his
skull, which jolted him and left him utterly dazed. Then she
resumed sucking him, which provoked his ignoble rattles. After
bringing his senses to a height offury with Sir Edmund's help and
mine, she gave him a hard shake.
  "That's not all," she said in a voice that brooked no reply. "It's
time to piss."
  And she struck his face again with the chalice, but at the same
time she stripped naked before hirn and I finger-fucked her.
  Sir Edmund's gaze, fixed on the stunned eyes of the young
cleric, was so imperious that the thing went off with barely any
hitch; Don Aminado noisily poured his urine into the chaliee,
which Simone held under this thick cock.
  "And now, drink," commanded Sir Edmund.
  The paralyzed wretch drank with a well-nigh filthy ecstasy at
one long gluttonous draft. Again Simone sucked and wanked him;
he continued gurgling desperately and revelling in it. With a
demented gesture, he bashed the sacred chamber-pot against a
wall. Four robust arms lifted him up and, with open thighs, his
body erect, and yelling like a pig being slaughtered, he spurted his
come on the hosts in the ciborium, which Simone held in front of
him while masturbating him.


         13.  The Legs of the Fly

We dropped the swine and he crashed to the floor. Sir Edmund,
Simone,  and  myself  were  coldly  animated  by  the  same
determination, together with an incredible excitement and levity.
The priest lay there with a limp cock, his teeth digging into the
floor with rage and shame. Now that his balls were drained, his
abomination appeared to him in all its horror. He audibly sighed:
  "Oh miserable sacrileges. .  ."
  And muttering other incomprehensible laments.
  Sir Edmund nudged him with his foot; the monster leaped up
and drew back, bellowing with such ludicrous fury that we burst
out laughing.
  "Get on your feet," Sir Edmund ordered him, "you're going to
fuck this girl."


  "Wretches . . ." Don Aminado threatened in a choking voicc   .
"Spanish policc . . . prison . . . the garrotte. . . ."
  "But you are forgetting that is your sperm," observed Sir
Edmund.
  A ferocious grimace, a trembling like that of a cornered beast,
and then: "The garrotte for me too. But you three . . . first."
  "Poor fool," smirked Sir Edrnund. "First! Do you think I am
going to let you wait that long? First!"
  The  imbecile  gaped  dumbstruck  at  the  Englishman:  an
extremely silly expression darted across his handsome face.
Something like an absurdjoy began to open his mouth, he crossed
his arms over his naked chest and finally gazed at us with ecstatic
cyes. "Martyrdom. .  ." he uttered in a voice that was suddenly
feeble and yet tore out like a sob. "Martyrdom. .  ." A bizarre
hope ofpurification had come to the wretch, illuminating his eyes.
  "First I am going to tell you a story," Sir Edmund said to him
sedately. "You know that men who are hanged or garrotted have
such stiff cocks the instant their respiration is cut off, that they
cjaculate. You are going to have the pleasure of being martyred
while fucking this girl."
  And when the horrified priest rose to defend himself, the
Englishman brutally knocked him down, twisting his arm.
  Next, Sir Edmund, slipping under his victim, pinioned his arms
behind his back while I gagged him and bound his legs with a bclt.
The Englishman, gripping his arms from behind in a strangle-
hold, disabled the priest's legs in his own. Kneeling behind, I kept
the man's head immobile between my thighs.
  "And now," said Sir Edmund to Simone, "mount this little
padre."
  Simone removed her dress and squatted on the belly of this
singular martyr, her cunt next to his flabby cock.
  "Now," continued Sir Edmund, "squeeze his throat, the pipe
just behind the Adam's apple: a strong, gradual pressure."
  Simone squeezed, a dreadful shudder ran through that mute,
fully immobilized body, and the cock stood on end. I took it into
my hands and had no trouble fitting it into Simone's vulva, while
she continued to squeeze the throat.

  The utterly intoxicated girl kept wrenching the big cock in and
out with her buttocks, atop the body whose muscles were cracking
in our formidable strangleholds.
  At last, she squeezed so resolutely that an cven more violent
thrill shot through her victim, and she felt the come shooting inside
her cunt. Now she let go, collapsing backwards in a tempest ofjoy.
  Simone lay on the floor, her belly up, her thigh still srneared by
the dead man's sperm which had trickled from her vulva. I
stretched out at her side to rape and fuck her in tum, but all I could
do was squeeze her in my arms and kiss her mouth, because ofa
strange inward paralysis ultimately caused by my love for the girl
and the death of the unspeakable creature. I have never been so
content.
  I didn't even stop Simone from pushing me aside and going to
view her work. She straddled the naked cadaver again, scrutinizing
the purplish face with the keenest interest, she even sponged the
sweat offthe forehead and obstinately waved away a fly buzzing in
a sunbeam and endlessly flitting back to alight on the face. All at
once, Simone uttered a soft cry. Something bizarre and quite
baffling had happened: this time, the insect had perched on the
corpse's eye and was agitating its long nightmarish legs on the
strange orb. The girl took her head in her hands and shook it,
trembling, then she seemed to plunge into an abyss ofreflections.

  Curiously, we weren't the least bit worried about what might
happen. I suppose if anyone had come along, Sir Edmund and I
wouldn't have given him much time to be scandalized. But no
matter. Simone gradually emerged from her stupor and sought
protection with Sir Edmund, who stood motionless, his back to
the wall; we could hear the fly flitting over the corpse.
  "Sir Edmund," she said, rubbing her cheek gently on his
shoulder, "I want you to do something."
  "I shall do anything you like," he replied.
  She made me come over to the corpse: she knelt down and
completely opened the eye that the fly had perched on.
  "Do you see the eye?" she asked me.
  "Well?"


 "It's an egg," she concluded in all simplicity.
 "All right," I urged her, extremely disturbed, "what are you
getting at?"
  "I want to play with this eye."
  "What do you mean?"
  "Listen, Sir Edmund," she finally let it out, "you must give me
this at once, tear it out at once, I want it!"
  Sir Edmund was always poker-faced except when he tumed
purple. Nor did he bat an eyelash now; but the blood did shoot to
his face. He removed a pair offine scissors from his wallet, knelt
down, then nimbly inserted the fingers of his left hand into the
socket and drew out the eye, while his right hand snipped the
obstinate ligaments. Next, he presented the small whitish eyeball
in a hand reddened with blood.
  Simone gazed at the absurdity and finally took it in her hand,
completely distraught; yet she had no qualms, and instantly
amused herself by fondling the depth of her thighs and inserting
this apparently fluid object. The caress ofthe eye over the skin is so
utterly, so extraordinarily gentle, and the sensation is so bizarre
that it has something of a rooster's horrible crowing.
  Simone meanwhile amused herselfby slipping the eye into the
profound crevice ofher arse, and after lying down on her back and
raising her legs and bottom, she tried to keep the&127eye there simply
by squeezing her buttocks together. But all at once, it spat out like a
stone squeezed from a cherry, and dropped on the thin belly ofthe
corpse, an inch or so from the coek.

  In the meantime, I had let Sir Edmund undress me, so that I
could pounce stark naked on the crouching body of the girl; my
entire cock vanished at one lunge into the hairy crevice, and I
fucked her hard while Sir Edmund played with the eye, rolling it,
in between the contortions ofour bodies, on the skin ofour bellies
and breasts. For an instant, the eye was trapped between our navels.
  "Put it up my arse, Sir Edmund," Simone shouted. And Sir
Edmund delicately glided the eye between her buttocks.
  But finally, Simone left me, grabbed the beautiful eyeball from
the hands of the tall Englishman, and with a staid and regular


pressure from her hands, she slid it into her slobbery flesh, in the
midst ofthe fur. And then she promptly drew me over, clutching
my neck between her arms and smashing her lips on mine so
forcefully that I came without touching her and my come shot all
over her fur.
  Now I stood up and, while Simone lay on her side, I drew her
thighs apart, and found myself facing something I imagine I had
been waiting for in the same way that a guillotine waits for a neck
to slice. I even felt as if my eyes were bulging from my head,
erectile with horror; in Simone's hairy vagina, I saw the wan blue
eye of Marcelle, gazing at me through tears of urine. Streaks of
come in the steaming hair helped give that dreamy vision a
disastrous sadness. I held the thighs open while Simone was
convulsed by the urinary spasm, and the burning urine streamed
out from under the eye down to the thighs below. .  .
  Two hours later, Sir Edmund and I were sporting&127false black
beards, and Simone was bedizened in a huge, ridiculous black hat
with yellow flowers and a long cloth dress like a noble girl from the
provinces. In this get-up, we rented a car and left Seville. Huge
valises allowed us to change our personalities at every leg of the
journey in order to outwit the police investigation. Sir Edmund
evinced a humorous ingenuity in these circumstances: thus we
marched down the main street ofthe small town of Ronda, he and
I dressed as Spanish priests, wearing the small hairy felt hats and
priestly cloaks, and manfully puffing on big cigars; as for Simone,
who was walking between us in the costume of a Seville
seminarist, she looked more angelic than ever. In this way, we kept
disappearing all through Andalusia, a country ofyellow earth and
yellow sky, to my eyes an immense chamber-pot flooded with
sunlight, where each day, as a new character, I raped a likewise
transformed Simone, especially towards noon, on the ground and
in the blazing sun, under the reddish eyes of Sir Edmund.
  On the fourth day, at Gibraltar, the Englishman purchased a
yacht, and we set sail towards new adventures with a crew of
Negroes.



        PART 2. COINCIDENCES

While composing this partly imaginary tale, I was struck by
several coincidences, and since they appeared indirectly to bring
out the meaning of what I have written, I would like to describe
them.

  I began writing with no precise goal, ·nimated chiefly by a
desire to forget, at least for the time being, the things I can be or do
personally. Thus, at first, I thought that the character speaking in
the first person had no relation to me. But then one day I was
&127looking through an American magazine filled with photographs of
European landscapes, and I chanced upon two astonishing pictures:
the first was a street in the practically unknown village from which
my family comes; the second, the nearby ruins of a medieval


fortified castle on a crag in the mountain. I promptly recalled an
episode in my life, connected to those ruins. At the time, I was
twenty-one; holidaying in the village that summer, I decided one
evening to go to the ruins that same night, and did so immediately,
accompanied by several perfectly chaste girls and, as a chaperone,
my mother. I was in love with one ofthe girls, and she shared my
feelings, yet we had never spoken to one another because she
believed she had a religious calling, which she wanted to examine
in all liberty. After walkÌng for some one and a half hours, we
arrived at the foot of the castle around ten or eleven on a rather
gloomy night. We had started climbing the rocky mountain with
its utterly romantic wall, when a white and thoroughly luminous
ghost leapt forth from a deep cavity in thÈ rocks and barred our
way. It was so extraordinary that one girl and my mother fell back
together, and the others let out piercing shrieks. I myself felt a
sudden terror, which stifled my voice, and so it took me a few
seconds before I could hurl some threats, which were unintelligible
to the phantom, even though I was certain from the very
beginning that it was all a hoax. The phantom did flee the moment
he saw me striding towards him, and I didn't let him out of my
sight until I recognized my older brother, who had cycled up with
another boy. Wearing a sheet, he had succeeded in scaring us by
popping out under the sudden ray ofan acetylene lantern.
  The day I found the photograph in the magazine, I had just
finished the sheet episode in the story, and I noticed that I kept
seeing the sheet at the left,just as the sheeted ghost had appeared at
the left, and I realized there was a perfect coincidence ofimages tied
to an·logous upheavals. Indeed, I have rarely been as dumbfound-
ed as at the apparition ofthe false phantom.

  I was very astonished at having unknowingly substituted a
perfectly obscene image for a vision apparently devoid of any
sexual implication. Still, I would soon have cause for even greater
astonishment.
  I had already thought out all the details ofthe scene in the Seville
vestry, especially the incision in the priest's socket and the plucking
of his eye, when, realizing the kinship between the story and my


own life, I amused myselfby introducing the description ofa tragic
bullfight that I had actually witiiessed. Oddly enough, I drew no
connection  between  the  two  episodes until I did  a precise
description of the injury inflicted on Manuel Granero (a real
person) by the bull; but the moment I reached this death scene, I
was totally taken aback. The opening ofthe priest's eye was not, as
I had believed, a gratuitous invention. I was merely transfering, to
a different person, an image that had most likely led a very
profound life. If I devised the business about snipping out the
priest's eye, it was because I had seen a bull's horn tear out a
matador's eye. Thus, precisely the two images that probably most
upset me had sprung from the darkest corner ofmy memory-and
in a scarcely recognizable shape-as soon as I gave myselfover to
lewd dreams.
  But no sooner did I realize this (I hadjust finished portraying the
bullfight of May &127) than I visited a friend ofmine, who is a doctor. I
read the description to him, but it was not in the same form as now.
Never having seen the skinned balls ofa bull, I assumed they were
the same bright red colour as the erect cock ofthe animal, and that
was how they were depicted in the first draft. The entire Story ofthe
Eye was woven in my mind out of two ancient and closely
associated  obsessions,  eggs and eyes,  but nevertheless,  I had
previously regarded the balls of the bull as independent of that
cycle. Yet when I finished reading to him, my friend remarked that
I had absolutely no idea of what the glands I was writing about
were really like, and he promptly read aloud a detailed description
in an anatomical textbook. I thus learned that human or animal
balls are egg-shaped and look the-same as an eyeball.
  This time, I ventured to explain such extraordinary relations by
assuming a profound region of my mind, where certain images
coincide, the elementary ones, the completely obscene ones, i.e. the
most scandalous, precisely those on which the eonscious floats
indefinitely, unable to endure them without an explosion or
aberration.

  However, upon locating this breaking point ofthe conscious or,
if you will, the favourite plaee of sexual deviation, certain quite


different personal memories were quickly associated with some
harrowing images that had emerged during an obscene com-
position.

  When I was born, my father was suffering from general
paralysis, and he was already blind when he conceived me; not
long after my birth, his sinister disease confined him to an
armchair. However, the very contrary of most male babies, who
are in love with their mothers, I was in love with my father. Now
the following was connected to his paralysis and blindness. He was
unable to go and urinate in the toilet like most people; instead, he
did it into a small container at his arrnchair, and since he had to
urinate very often, he was unembarrassed about doing it in front of
me, under a blanket, which, since he was blind, he usually placed
askew. But the weirdest thing was certainly the way he looked
while pissing. Since he could not see anything, his pupils very
frequently pointed up into space, shifting under the lids, and this
happened particularly when he pissed. Furthermore, he had huge,
ever-gaping eyes that flanked an eagle nose, and those huge eyes
went almost entirely blank when he pissed, with a completely
stupefying expression ofabandon and aberration in a world that he
alone could see and that aroused his vaguely sardonic and absent
laugh (I would have liked to recall everything here at once, for
instance the erratic nature ofa blind man's isolated laughter, and so
forth). In any case, the image of those white eyes from that time
was directly linked, for me, to the image ofeggs, and that explains
the almost regular appearance ofurine every time eyes or eggs occur
in the story.

  After perceiving this kinship between distinct elements, I was
led to discover a further, no less essential kinship between the
general nature of my story and a particular fact.
  I was about fourteen when my affection for my father turned
into a deep and unconscious hatred. I began vaguely enjoying his
constant shrieks at the lightning pains caused by the tabes, whic.h
are  considered  among  the  worst  paini  known  to  man.
Furthermore, the filthy, smelly state to which his total disablement


often reduced him (for instance, he sometimes left shit on his
trousers) was not nearly so disagreeable to me as I thought. Then
again, in all things, I adopted the attitudes and opinions most
radically opposed to those of that suprernely nauseating creature.
  One night, we were awakened, my mother and I, by vehement
words that the syphilitic was literally howling in his room: he had
suddenly  gone  mad.  I  went  for  the  doctor,  who  came
immediately. My father kept endlessly and eloquently imagining
the most outrageous and generally the happiest events. The doctor
had withdrawn to the next room with my mother and I had
remained with the blind lunatic, when he shrieked in a stentorian
voice: "Doctor, let me know when you're done fucking my wife!"
For me, that utterance, which in a split second annihilated the
demoralizing effects ofa strict upbringing, left me with something
like a steady obligation, unconscious and unwilled: the necessity of
finding an equivalent to that sentence in any situation I happen to
be in; and this largely explains Story of the Eye.
  To complete this survey of the high summits of my personal
obscenity, I must add a final connection I made in regard to
Marcelle. It was one ofthe most disconcerting, and I did not arrive
at it until the very end.
  It is impossible for me to say positively that Marcelle is basically
identical with my mother. Sueh a statement would actually be, if
not false, then at least exaggerated. Thus Marcelle is also a
fourteen-year-old girl who once sat opposite me for a quarter ofan
hour at the Cafe des Deux Magots in Paris. Nonetheless, I still want
to tell about some memories that ultimately fastened a few
episodes to unmistakable facts.
  Soon after my father's attack oflunacy, my mother, at the end of
a vile scene to which her mother subjected her infront ofme, suddenly lost
her mind too. She spent several months in a crisis of manic-
depressive insanity (melancholy). The absurd ideas ofdamnation
and catastrophe that seized control of her irritated me even more
because I was forced to look after her continually. She was in such a
bad state that one night I removed some candlesticks with marble
bases from my room; I was afraid she might kill me while I slept.
On the other hand, whenever I lost patience, I went so far as to


strike her, violently twisting her wrists to try and bring her to her
senses.
  One day, my mother disappeared while our baeks were turned;
we hunted her for a long time and finally found her hanged in the
attic. However, they managed to revive her.
  A short time later, she disappeared again, this time at night; I
m›selfwent looking for her, endlessly, along a creek, wherever she
might have tried to drown herself. Running without stopping,
through the darkness, across swamps, I at last found myselfface to
face with her: she was drenched up to her belt, the slzirt was pissing the
creek water, but she had come out on her own, and the icy, wintery
water was not very deep anyway.
  I never linger over such memories, for they have long since lost
any emotional significance for me. There was no way I could
restore them to life except by transforming them and making them
unrecognizable, at first glanee, to my eyes, solely because during
that deformation they acquired the lewdest of meanings.



 W.C.

       (Preface to Story of the Eye
          from Le Petit:1943)

A year before Story of the Eye, I had written a book entitled W.C.: a
small book, a rather crazy piece of writing.  W.C. was as
lugubrious as Story of the Eye was juvenile. The manuscript of
W.C. was burnt, but that was no loss, considering my present
sadness: it was a shriek of horror (horror at myself, not for my
debauchery, but for the philosopher's head in which since then . . .
how sad it is!). On the other hand, I am as happy as ever with the
fulminating joy of The Eye: nothing can wipe it away. Such joy,
bordering on na:ve folly, will forever remain beyond terror, for
terror reveals its meaning.
  A drawing for W.C. showed an eye: the scaffold's eye. Solitary,
solar, bristling with lashes, it gazed from the lunette ofa guillotine.
The drawing was named Eternal Recurrence, and its horrible


machine was the cross-beam, gymnastic gallows, portico. Coming
from the horizon, the road to eternity passed through it. A parodic
verse, heard in a sketch at the Concert Mayol, supplied the caption:

              God, how the corpse's blood is sad
                  in the depth ofsound.

  Story of the Eye has another reminiscence of W.C., which
appears on the title page, placing all that follows under the worst of
signs. The name Lord Auch [pronounced  žsh] refers to a habit
ofa friend ofmine; when vexed, instead ofsaying "aux chiottes!"
(to the shithouse), he would shorten it to "aux ch'." Lord is English
for God (in the Scriptures): Lord Auch is God relieving himself.
The story is too lively to dwell upon; every creature transfigured
by such a place: God sinking into it rejuvenates the heavens.

  To be God, naked, solar, in the rainy night, on a field: red,
divinely, manuring with the majesty of a tempest, the face
grimacing, torn apart, being IMPOSSIBLE in tears: who knew,
before me, what majesty is?

  The "eye of the conscience" and the "woods ofjustice"
incarnate eternal recurrence, and is there any more desperate image
for remorse?
  I gave the author of W.C. the pseudonym of Troppmann.
  I masturbated naked, at night, by my mother's corpse. (A few
people, reading Coincidences, wondered whether it did not have
the fictional character of the tale itself. But, like this Preface,
Coincidences has a literal exactness: many people in the village of R.
could confirm the material; moreover, some ofmy friends did read
W.C.)

  What upset me more was: seeing my father shit a great number
oftimes. He would get out ofhis blind paralytic's bed (my father
being both blind and paralytic at once) . It was very hard for him to
get out of bed (I would help him) and settle on a chamber-pot, in
his nightshirt and, usually, a cotton nightcap (he had a pointed grey


beard, ill-kempt, a large eagle-nose, and immense hollow eyes
staring into space). At times, the "lightning-sharp pains" would
make him howl like a beast, sticking out his bent leg, which he
futilely hugged in his arms.

  My father having conceived me when blind (absolutely blind) , I
cannot tear out my eyes like Oedipus.
  Like Oedipus, I solved the riddle: no one divined it more deeply
than I.
  On November 6, I915, in a bombarded town, a few miles from
the German lines, my father died in abandonment.
  My mother and I had abandoned him during the German
advance in August 1914.
  We had left him with the housekeeper.
  The Germans occupied the town, then evacuated it. We could
now return: my mother, unable to bear the thought of it, went
mad. Late that year, my mother recovered: she refused to let me go
home to N. We received occasional letters from my father, hejust
barely ranted and raved. When we learned he was dying, my
mother agreed to go with me. He died a few days before our
arrival, asking for his children: we found a sealed coffin in the
bedroom.

  When my father went mad (a year before the war) after a
hallucinating night, my mother sent me to the post office to
dispatch a telegram. I remember being struck with a horrible pride
en route. Misery overwhelmed me, internal irony replied: "So
much horror makes you predestined": a few months earlier, one
fine morning in December, I had informed my parents, who were
beside themselves, that I would never set foot in school again. No
amount of anger could change my mind: I lived alone, going out
rarely, by way of the fields, avoiding the centre, where I might
have run into friends.
  My father, an unreligious man, died refusing to see the priest.
During puberty, I was unreligious myself(my mother indifferent).
But I went to a priest in August 1914; and until 1920, rarely did I let
a week go by without confessing my sins! In 1920, I changed again,


I stopped believing in anything but my future chances. My piety
was merely an attempt at evasion: I wanted to escape my destiny at
any price, I was abandoning my father. Today, I know I am
"blind", immeasurable, I am man "abandoned" on the globe like
my father at N. No one on earth or in heaven cared about my
father's dying terror. Still, I believe he faced up to it, as always.
What a "horrible pride", at moments, in Father's blind smile!


          Outline of a Sequel to
           Story of the Eye



After fifteen years of more &127and more serious debauchery, Simone
ends up in a torture camp. But by mistake; descriptions oftorture,
tears, imbecility of unhappiness, Simone at the threshold of a
conversion, exhorted by a cadaverous woman, one more in the
series ofdevotees ofthe Church of Seville. She is now thirty-five.
Beautiful when entering the camp, but old age is gradually taking
over, irremediable. Beautiful scene with a female torturer and the
devotee; the devotee and Simone are beaten to death, Simone
escapes temptation. She dies as though making love, but in the
purity (chaste) and the imbecility of death: fever and agony
transfigure her. The torturer strikes her, she is indifferent to the
blows, indifferent to the words ofthe devotee, lost in the labour of
agony. It is by no means an eroticjoy, it is far more than that. But


with no result. Nor is it masochistic, and, profoundly, this
exaltation is beyond any imagining;  it surpasses everything.
However, its basis is solitude and absence.

                             (from the fourth edition, 1967)


OCR'd by P.V. for BEP...