Mário de Sá-Carneiro - His short stories depict madness, death, erotic jealousy and fin de siecle decadence in fragmented and luminously synaesthetic prose



Mário de Sá-Carneiro, The Great Shadow (and other stories)Trans. by Margaret Jull Costa, Dedalus, 1996.

"Sa-Carneiro was only 26 when he committed suicide in Paris in 1916. His short stories depict madness, death, erotic jealousy and fin de siecle decadence in fragmented and luminously synaesthetic prose. Almost anticipating Kafka, he describes a scientist killed by the machinery of an invisible parallel world, and a poet, whose verses fly to the stars leaving blank pages in their wake." - Scotland on Sunday

Excerpt:
Myself the Other
12th October, Lisbon 1907
I am a golden dagger whose blade has grown dull.
My soul fits me tightly, it vibrates with the desire to burst forth. Only my body is heavy. My soul is imprisoned in a narrow hallway.
I am not a coward when it comes to fear. I am only a coward about myself. Ah, if only I were handsome...
I feel ashamed at my own feelings of greatness.
I am so great that I can only tell my secrets to myself.
I never had any doubts. I have always felt cold.
1st November
The open windows remain closed...
13th November
It's terrible the way I spend all my time wandering. In myself and amongst others.
I always stayed on, I never moved, even when I lost myself.
Sometimes, even now, I decide that I will leave. And I do. But I never manage to go through with it. If it is not my fault, then it is the fault of the others who beckoned me on.
If they did beckon to me, it was because they assumed that I would never follow them; they did so because they wanted to suffer. And since I did eventually respond to their gestures, they became disenchanted with me and they fled, mocking me. I detached myself from them.
I am only allowed to be happy on condition that I am not.
2nd December
It's unbelievable!
Almost everyone is quite contented with themselves; they are fulfilled. They live and they progress. They start families. People kiss them.
How disgusting! Not even to have enough genius to want to be a genius!
Poor wretches!
30th December
... And the open windows are still...still closed...
I have run aground inside myself.
I can no longer imagine myself.
20th June, Rome 1908
Ah, cities, cities!
I exhaust myself with activity. It's the only way I can get myself to close my eyes.
I have been travelling around Europe for six months now... I stay nowhere for longer than a week. That way I manage to keep one step ahead of myself...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
But alas, I soon catch up...

12th October, Paris 1908
The grey ruins of golden statues; blind, purple sphinxes; thrones without steps and the great marble staircase carpeted in sackcloth!...
But why do I look at myself like that, why?... It is this longing to go deep into myself that causes evening to fall inside me. And yet I feel so proud to have made that crossing...
Ah, if only I were who I am... What a triumph that would be!...
13th October
What it comes down to in the end is this: I am too much for myself.
15th November
Perhaps I am a whole nation... Can I have become a country?...
Possibly.
One thing is certain, I feel that inside me there are city squares.
16th November
That's it, that's it!
I have become a nation...
...Vast deserted roads...trees...rivers...bridges...
a lot of bridges...
I cannot fill myself. I am too much for myself. I rattle about inside.
14th December
My spirit slipped and fell.
I overstepped the mark.
I stand coldly face to face with myself and I am almost happy.
22nd December
Peace...peace...
5th January, Paris 1909
Today I met him for the first time.
It was in the café. I suddenly saw him sitting opposite me... The café was full. That's why he came and sat down at my table.
But I didn't see him sit down. When I noticed him, he was already sitting opposite me. No one had introduced us and yet we were already chatting to each other...
He's so handsome!
And what about the triumphal look that lights up his lean, gaunt face? His long hair falls in ringlets. His hair is reddish blond. I felt like kissing him hard on the mouth...
Yes, he would know how to be me.
10th January
We meet every night now. We spend long hours together.
I don't know who he is nor where he came from.
We constantly misunderstand each other. We never agree. Again and again he humiliates me, shakes me. In short, he puts me in my place.
He doesn't see anything the way I see it.
He is a different colour entirely.
His company is a torment to me. Yet I seek him out everywhere. When he fails to appear at the meetings we arrange - which happens often - an infinite sadness fills me.
The odd thing is I have never seen him arrive. By the time I realise he is there, he is already sitting opposite me.
Sometimes he arrives very late. When he does finally turn up, I feel terribly tired, exhausted, as if I had just made a huge physical effort.
I have never heard his footsteps.
He told me that he is Russian, but I don't believe him.
18th January
Our conversations cover all kinds of topics, but we spend most of the time talking about our souls. I reveal mine to him entirely. And he seems to believe me.
He has such long, long fingers...
27th February
For the first time since we met, I went a whole week without seeing him.
Only then could I assess what it is that binds me to him.
It isn't affection, although I do sometimes long to kiss him. It is hatred, an infinite hatred. But it's a glorious hatred too. That's why I seek him out and why I am only truly alive when I am with him. That's the truth: I am only truly alive when I am with him.
12th March
My friend is becoming truly unbearable. He makes me his plaything. He takes every opportunity to show how he despises me.
Every day his opinions are more repellent and more beautiful.
28th March
Today someone told me terrible things about my friend.
3rd April
Yet how powerful he is!
He may be perverse, but he is worth more than all the others put together.
He is all intensity, all fire.
When I am with him, I see what I would like to be, what I also, coincidentally, am.
If I were him, I would not be too much for myself.
Basically, his opinions are mine.
It's simply that I do not wish to believe what I think. I have my pride. That is perhaps what he lacks.
I am greater than he is. But he is beautiful.
He is as beautiful as gold and as vast as the shadows.
The open windows only opened up for me within him.
15th April
Should I kill him?

30th April
I should do something. I feel I am losing my personality.
Little by little my soul is shaping itself to his.
I have genius enough to admire him. This may be my perdition.
Let us at least be ourselves.
Let us suffer, but let us be ourselves.
I no longer believe in my sufferings...
5th May
He talks a lot to me about his lovers, but I have never seen his lovers.
I don't know where he lives.
18th May
I can never forget him. His words always come back to me.
What I can never remember is the sound of his voice.
As for his footsteps, I have yet to hear them.
12th June
I am definitely going to run away from him. Enough is enough.

19th June
At last! The spell is broken... I am leaving this morning.
20th June, Lisbon 1909
I'm back. But how everything about me has changed...
22nd June
My friends say that I have changed a lot. They say my voice is different, my attitudes, my physical appearance.
I return home filled with fear.
I look at myself in the mirror...
And to my horror I discover on my face, as if in a caricature, the rictus of disdain on his face.
I say something out loud...
And for the first time I remember the sound of his voice...
I stride around the room...
I'm trembling all over!
For the first time I hear his footsteps...

30th June
I must rid myself of this obsession.
1st July
My God, my God, I no longer have the same gestures, the same thoughts as I used to have! Everything about me has changed. Everything about me rings false.
And everyone looks at me oddly...they all flee from me...
All of them... I hate them... I find them utterly inferior...
But he, yes, he is great! He, undoubtedly, is great.
20th July
This hallucination of mine is such torment.
I no longer know how to defend myself against it.
I speak. And suddenly my words diverge from my thoughts.
When I speak, it is he who is doing the thinking...
25th July
I sit down at my work table.
I am going to begin writing something I have pondered for a long time.
I write the first lines.
Disillusioned, I get up.
I cannot accept my ideas.
They seem commonplace to me.
I don't believe in what I write.
I doubt if I am, in fact, an artist.
The other is right.
If I were an artist, I would be beautiful.
And I would have long fingers.
And I would be pale.
And I would never know what time it is.
I tear up everything I wrote.
I feel sickened by myself.
26th July
Before, I used to kiss myself in mirrors.
2nd August
Today I wrote a few pages.
These pages I do believe in.
They are true works of art.
I read them out loud, glowing with pride.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Then I suddenly fall into a rage.
I tear them up too.
They are not mine.
If I had never met him, I would never have written them...

6th August
He used to wear a strange gold ring on his left hand.
One day he told me that he had found it in the sea, when he was a child.
And that he was kidnapped by sailors on a schooner.
20th August
I am surrounded by the ruins of myself.
Golden threads draw me towards the abyss.
25th August
But I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to!
2nd September
The truth, the terrible truth is this: hour by hour I am slipping away from myself. I overflow my borders.
I suffer so much.
8th September
A mystery!
I did not give him my address; I did not tell him where I was going and today - yes, today in my house - I received a telegram from him. He arrives tomorrow.
Damn him!
9th September
This is what happened:
I decided to shut myself up in the house, giving orders to the servants not to open the door to anyone.
But a terrible fear gripped me.
I went out...
And suddenly he was walking by my side!...
10th September
What is to become of me? What is to become of me?
15th September
He never leaves me...
18th September
My senses are beginning to change. Sounds have different smells now. I feel colours in quite different ways. The light pierces me.
26th September
How I have struggled!
27th September
Ah!...
28th September
The end!
I no longer exist. I have hurled myself into him.
I have lost myself.
We have ceased being us. We are one now.
I knew this would happen; it was fated...
Ah, how I hate him!
He sucked me in little by little.
His body was porous. He absorbed me.
I no longer exist.
I have disappeared from life.
I have formed a cyst inside him.
Ruins!
2nd October
The most painful thing is that he does not even know that he has absorbed me because he has no respect for me.
If he had, I would have been the one to absorb him.
6th October
I want to run away, I want to run away!
Can there be any greater torment?
I exist, but I am not myself!
I am another... I am the other... The Other!...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
8th October
Where he goes, I go, but I never know where he is going...
His ecstasies are my ecstasies, but he alone does the possessing.
His ideals are my ideals, but he alone realises them.
How can I free myself?
12th October
The wretch!
17th October
Anything but this! Anything but this!
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

13th January, St Petersburg 1910
At last, success!
I have made a decision.
I will kill him tonight...while He is asleep...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Lisbon, November 1913


Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Lucio's ConfessionTrans. by Margaret Jull Costa, Dedalus, 2009.  

"It is an enigmatic love triangle riddled with madness and jealousy, set in fin-de-siecle Paris and Lisbon, and its translation reopens a rich vein of fantastic literature." - Christopher Fowler in Time Out
A decadent, enigmatic jewel of a novel which will delight readers of fin-de-siecle fiction.
Written in 1913 this is a thoroughly decadent story of an unusual menage a trois which ends in a killing. It's filled with poets and artists and those special problems that sensitive people have ('Do you hear that music? It's like a symbol of my life: a wonderful melody murdered by a terrible unworthy performer.') The last word on this magnificent period piece - bejewelled and opiated and splendidly over the top - belongs to one of its characters: 'It seems more like the vision of some brilliant onanist than reality'. - Phil Baker inThe Sunday Times
Febrile, intense and innovative. - Nicholas Lezard in The Guardian
An enigmatic love triangle riddled with madness and jealousy, set in fin de siecle Paris and Lisbon, and its translation reopens a rich vein of fantasy. - Christopher Fowler in Time Out
Written by one of Portugal’s greatest Modernists, Lucio’s Confession is a short novel that defies a logical explanation of its plot. The narrative purports to a confession in which Lucio, recently released from jail after serving ten years for murder, decides to tell the truth; Lucio maintains that he is innocent and that now he will state the facts of what really happened when his friend, Ricardo, died, even if those facts defy reason. And so begins a mind-bending story about art, literature, love, sexual obsession, deceit, madness and guilt.
Lucio is a struggling artist in Paris in 1895 when he meets the poet Ricardo de Loureiro. Their friendship quickly turns into a secret obsession for the timid Lucio, who admires the lively Ricardo. Trouble steps in when Ricardo, who seemed unable to ever devote himself to a married life, suddenly introduces his wife to Lucio. This changes everything between the two, but Lucio believes things can still be the way they were before.
This all seems very banal until the facts in the novel start contradicting themselves and the protagonist starts running out of explanations for the inconsistencies. Slowly it becomes obvious we’ll never know the whole story, and we’re drawn into a world of fantasy and madness for a fascinating ride through a shattered mind.
This elegant prose nightmare was written in 1914, just two years before the author committed suicide in Paris. - World Literature Forum
It is, in this sparkling new translation by Margaret Jull Costa, a fabulous testament to fin de siecle Paris - the story of an enigmatic and unusual menage a trois, with a strong homerotic subtext, set in a world of fantasy and madness. - Keith Richmond in Tribune
Excerpt:
Around 1895, quite how I do not know, I found myself studying Law or rather not studying Law at the University of Paris. I had been something of a drifter since adolescence and, having tried out various 'goals' in life, only to abandon each in turn, I was gripped by a desire to see Europe and I decided to take myself off to its capital, Paris. I soon became embroiled in various vaguely artistic circles and Gervásio Vila-Nova, whom I had known slightly in Lisbon, became my constant companion. He cut a curious figure, that of the great artist manqué or, rather, of the artist doomed to failure.
There was something disquieting about his tall, gaunt, angular body, with its dual and contradictory suggestion of both a hysterical, narcotic effeminacy and a sallow asceticism. When his long hair fell back from his face to reveal a broad, firm but terribly pale brow, it evoked images of hairshirts and extreme abstinence; yet when it fell forward in waves over his forehead, it evoked only tenderness, the troubling tenderness of golden ecstasies and subtle kisses. He always dressed in black, in long jackets that had a touch of the priest about them, an impression reinforced by the type of collar he wore, narrow and close-fitting. When his forehead was concealed by his hair or by a hat, there was nothing enigmatic about his face at all, quite the contrary. Oddly enough though, there was something mysterious about his body, something that made one think of sphinxes, perhaps, on moonlit nights. It was not his actual physiognomy that etched itself upon one's memory, but rather his strange personality. He stood out in every crowd, he was stared at, talked about, although, in fact, at first sight there seemed to be nothing very remarkable about his appearance: his clothes, albeit of a slightly exaggerated cut, were black, his hair, though long, was never extravagantly so, and his hat, a woollen beret, whilst certainly odd, was no different from that worn by many artists.
The truth is that Gervásio Vila-Nova had an aura about him. He was the sort of man you look at in the street and say: he must be someone important.
Women utterly adored him. They would watch in fascination whenever he wandered, tall and arrogant, into a café... But they looked at him more the way women look at some exquisitely beautiful and bejewelled member of their own sex.
'You know, my dear Lúcio,' he often said to me, 'I never possess my lovers, they possess me.'
When we talked, his flame burned even brighter. He was a brilliant conversationalist, lovable despite his many solecisms, despite his mistakes which he would defend passionately and always successfully), despite his repellent but nonetheless glorious opinions, despite his paradoxes, his lies. He was a superior being, there was no doubt about it, one of those people who remains engraved on our memory, who troubles and obsesses us. He was fire, pure fire!
However, if you examined him with your intelligence, rather than with your emotions, you would see at once that there was, alas, nothing beyond the aura, that his genius - perhaps too brilliant - would consume itself, remain unsublimated into work and end up dispersed, fragmented, burned out. And that, in fact, is exactly what happened. He avoided failure only because he had the courage to destroy himself first.
It was impossible to feel affection for someone like that (although deep down he was an excellent fellow), and yet even today I recall with nostalgia the talks we had, the nights spent in cafés and I can even convince myself that, yes, the fate of Gervásio Vila-Nova really was the most beautiful of fates and that he was a great artist, an artist of genius.
My friend had many contacts in the artistic world: writers, painters and musicians from every country. One morning, he came into my room and announced:
'Yesterday, my dear Lúcio, I was introduced to a most interesting American woman. She's fabulously rich and lives in a mansion she's had specially built - on Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, if you please - on a site previously occupied by two large buildings which she simply ordered to be demolished. She's an enchanting woman. The man who introduced her to me was that American painter with the blue-tinted spectacles. Do you know who I mean? I can't remember his name... Anyway she can be found every afternoon in the Pavillon d'Armenonville. She takes tea there. I'd like you to meet her. You'll see what I mean then. A fascinating woman!'
...................................
A month went by. I had already forgotten all about the flame-haired woman, when one night, Gervàsio suddenly announced to me:
'By the way, that American woman I introduced to you the other day is giving a big party tomorrow and you're invited.'
'Me?'
'Yes. She told me to bring some friends and she mentioned you. She likes you a lot. It should be interesting. There's a performance at the end - apotheosis and dance or something... If you don't want to come, don't. I know how that sort of thing bores you...' As usual, I protested, like the idiot I still was, and declared that, on the contrary, I had every intention of going with him, and we arranged to meet the following night at ten in the Closerie.
On the day of the party, I regretted having agreed to go. I felt such an aversion to society life... Quite apart from having to put on a dinner jacket and waste a whole evening... Oh well...
When I reached the café, I found, much to my surprise, that my friend had already arrived. He said to me:
'We still have to wait for Ricardo de Loureiro. He's invited too. And I arranged to meet him here. Look, there he is.'
And he introduced us:
'The writer Lúcio Vaz...the poet Ricardo de Loureiro.'
And we, in turn, said to one another:
'Delighted to meet you.'
...........................................
Along the way we struck up conversation and, from the very first, I took a great liking to Ricardo de Loureiro. His Arab-dark face, with its strong lines, revealed a frank, open nature, illumined by intense, dark brown eyes, bright with intelligence.
I spoke to him about his work, which I admired, and he told me that he had read my volume of short stories and had been especially intrigued by a story called 'João Tortura'. Whilst I found this opinion flattering, it also made me feel even more warmly towards the poet, perceiving in him a nature that might understand my own soul a little. For that story was far and away my own particular favourite, but it was the only one that no critic had ever mentioned, and one that even my friends, without actually saying so, believed to be my least successful.
The artist's conversation was both brilliant and captivating and, for the first time, I saw Gervàsio, who normally dominated every group he was in, fall silent and listen.
At last our coupé pulled up outside a magnificent mansion on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. It was fantastically lit from within by a blaze of light filtered through red silk curtains. A large number of carriages stood at the door, an odd mixture of shabby fiacres and a few splendid private carriages
We got out.
At the entrance, a servant took our invitations from us, as if we were in a theatre foyer, whilst another immediately ushered us over to a lift that whisked us up to the first floor. There an astonishing sight awaited us: a large elliptical room, the ceiling of which was a lofty, glittering cupola supported on multi-coloured columns crowned by splendid volutes. At the far end of this room, resting upon bronze sphinxes, stood a strange stage from which down a flight of pink marble steps you descended into a large semi-circular swimming pool full of translucent water. There were also three tiers of galleries, so that the whole room looked exactly like some fantastic, sumptuous theatre.
Somewhere a hidden orchestra was grinding out waltzes.
When we went in - inevitably - every eye fixed on Gervásio Vila- Nova, looking priestly and exceptionally handsome in his black waisted jacket. The American woman immediately rushed up to us to ask what we thought of the room. The architects had only put the finishing touches to it two weeks before. This lavish party was being held to celebrate its inauguration.
We all gave loud expression to our astonishment at the marvellous room and she, the enchantress, smiled mysteriously and said:
'I want to know your opinion about what happens later on...especially the lights.'
The American woman was wearing an extraordinary dress, a kind of tunic made from a most singular material, impossible to describe. It was like a closely woven mesh of metallic threads - made from the most diverse metals - that fused together to produce an appearance of shimmering fire, a fire that contained all the colours in the world alternately colliding in shrill harmony or merging to produce whistling, starry tumults of reflected light. Her tunic was colour gone mad.
If you looked closely you could see her bare skin through the mesh of the fabric. The nipple of one breast poked through, firm and golden.
Her red hair was arranged in disorderly coils threaded with precious stones, which clustered like stars amidst flames, throwing off rays of transcendent light. Emerald serpents curled and bit about her arms, but she wore not a single jewel upon her deep décolletage. She was like a disquieting statue to serpentine desire, to platinum depravity. And what emanated from her skin, in that blue penumbra, was the dense aroma of transgression.
After a few moments, she slipped quickly away to greet other guests.
The room had filled up meanwhile with a strange and extravagant multitude. There were foreign women in daring ball gowns that left them almost naked and men with suspicious-looking faces above the unisonous black of male evening dress. There were red-haired, hirsute Russians, palely blond Scandinavians, stocky, curly-haired southerners, a Chinese man and an Indian. It was the quintessence of cosmopolitan Paris - brilliant, opulent and gaudy.
The guests danced and talked until midnight. Up in the galleries people gambled furiously. But then supper was announced and we all went into the dining room, which furnished us with yet further marvels.
Shortly before, the American woman had come over to us and whispered confidentially:
'After supper comes the show - my Triumph! I've tried to summarise in it all my ideas about sensuality as an art. Lights, bodies, smells, fire and water - everything will come together in an orgy of flesh distilled into gold!'
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

When we came back into the large salon, I, for my part, felt afraid and shrank back.
The whole scene had changed, it felt like a completely different room. It was filled by a heavy perfume, tremulous with passion. A mysterious breeze blew through it, a grey breeze blotched with yellow - I don't know why but that, for some strange reason, is how it seemed to me, a breeze that made our skin prick and shiver. The most astonishing and remarkable thing, however, was the lighting. I feel quite incapable of describing it. I could only, with great effort, attempt to explain its singularity, its languorous power.
The light - electric light of course - came from an infinite number of strange, round glass lampshades in a variety of colours and designs and of varying degrees of transparency, but in particular from the waves of brilliant light that blazed forth from projectors concealed in the galleries. Now these torrents of light, all focused on the same chimerical point in space, came together to form a maelstrom, and it was out of that meteoric maelstrom that the beams of light, ricocheting one against the other, were projected back onto walls and columns, were scattered about the room, transforming it.
The light in the room was, in effect, a projection of itself, it was still light, of course, but the truth is that the marvellous thing illuminating us did not seem like light. It seemed like something else, some sort of new fluid. I'm not rambling here, I'm simply describing a real sensation, for we did not so much see that light as feel it. And I do not think it would be going too far to say that it did not so much affect our sight as our sense of touch. If our eyes had been suddenly torn from us, we would still have been able to see it. What's more - and this is the most bizarre and splendid part - we could breathe this strange fluid. It's true, we drank in that light together with the air, with the purple perfume of the air, a light which, in a moment of iridescent ecstasy, of dizzying elation, flooded our lungs, invaded our blood, suffused our bodies with sound. Yes, that magical light actually resonated inside us, enlarging our senses, filling us with harmonies, flowing through us, dazzling us... Under its influence, our flesh became open to every sensation, every smell, every melody!
And we, our senses honed by long exposure to culture and art, were not alone in feeling overwhelmed by that shimmering mystery. For it was soon clear from the confused faces and troubled gestures of everyone in the audience that, engulfed by that light from beyond Hell, by that sexualised light, they were all transfixed as if under the spell of some flame-red sorcery.
But suddenly the light changed, became an arcing fall, and another tremor ran through us, milder this time, like a flurry of emerald kisses after a series of bruising bites.
In this new dawn, a vibrant music jingled forth in strange rhythms - a slender melody in which clashing segments of crystal lay submerged, in which sword-sharp palm leaves cooled the air, in which moist sequences of subtle sounds evaporated...
In short, we were all on the point of swooning in one final spasm of the soul...but they had sustained us this long only in order to prolong our pleasure.
At the far end of the room, the curtain rose on an aurora stage. The light that had so troubled us was extinguished and we were lit only by torrents of white electricity.
Three dancers appeared on the stage. They wore their hair loose and their upper bodies were clothed in tight scarlet blouses that left their breasts tremulously free. Tenuous strips of gauze hung from their waists. There was a gap between blouse and gauze - a stripe of bare flesh on which symbolic flowers were painted.
The dancers began their dance. Their legs were bare. They span, jumped, then merged into one, entangling limbs, kissing one another hard on the mouth.
The first dancer had black hair, her skin was resplendent as the sun. Her legs, seemingly moulded out of golden dawn, stole forth into the radiant light, to reveal, near her pubis, a mordant flesh one longed to sink one's teeth into.
But what made the dancers so exciting was the limpid nostalgia they evoked for a great blue lake of crystalline water where, on moonlit nights, they would plunge in, barefoot and tender.
The second dancer had the look of a perverse adolescent. She was thin, though with quite developed breasts, and had dull blonde hair, a provocative face and a turned-up nose. Her legs, knotted with muscles, were hard, masculine and aroused in everyone present the violent urge to bite them.
The third and final dancer was the most disquieting. She was ice- cool and slender, very pale and gaunt, her skeletal, devastated legs evocative of mysticism and disease.
Meanwhile, the dance continued. Their movements grew gradually faster and faster until, at last, in one final spasm, their mouths met and, with all the veils torn away - breasts, bellies, vulvas all uncovered - their bodies lay entangled, dying in a frenzy of desire.
And the curtain fell returning us to that earlier luminous placidity...
Other admirable scenes followed: naked dancers chasing each other in the pool, mimicking the sexual nature of the water, strange dancers scattering perfumes that lent an eerie darkness to the already fantastical atmosphere of the room; apotheoses of bare bodies piled one upon the other - sensual visions of vivid colour, vortices of ecstasy, symphonies of silks and velvets whirling about naked flesh.
But, however perverse, none of these marvels aroused in us lubricious or bestial desires, rather they stirred up an extraordinary and delicious longing in the soul that both burned and soothed.
An impression of excess passed only fleetingly through us
But it was not only the lewd scenes that provoked the ecstasies stirring in our souls. Far from it. What we experienced created in us an all-bracing sensation identical to what one would feel when listening to a sublime suite performed by an orchestra of virtuosi. And the sensual tableaux were simply one instrument in that orchestra, the other instruments being the lights, the perfumes, the colours... Yes, all those elements fused into an admirable whole which, by expanding the soul, penetrated it, and which our souls perceived as a distant fever, a vibration in the depths. We were all soul. Even our carnal desires descended to us from our souls.
However, this was as nothing compared to the final vision.
The lights became denser, sharper and more penetrating, falling now in torrents from the apex of the cupola and the curtain drew back to reveal a vaguely Asiatic scene... To the sound of heavy, hoarse, distant music, she appeared, the woman with red hair.
And she began to dance.
She was wrapped in a white tunic striped with yellow. Her hair hung down, wild and loose. She wore fantastic jewels on her fingers and her bare feet glittered with precious stones.
How to describe her silent steps, wet and cold as crystal; the stormy surges of her undulating body; the alcohol of her lips which - a brilliant touch this - she had painted gold; the evanescent harmony of her gestures; the whole diffuse horizon tenuously evoked by her whirling figure?
Meanwhile, on a mysterious altar behind her, fire burst forth.
In slow degrees of abandonment her tunic slipped from her body until, in a spasm of restrained ecstasy, it fell at her feet. Ah, at that point, confronted by the marvellous sight transfixing us, we could not help but cry out in amazement.
Chimerical, naked, her rarefied body rose up solemnly amidst a thousand fantastic coruscations. Like her lips, her nipples and her vulva were painted gold - a pale, sickly gold. And, in her desire to give herself to the fire, her whole being swayed in the grip of a scarlet mysticism.
But the fire drove her back.
Then, in a final act of perversity, she put on her veils again and hid herself, leaving only her golden vulva uncovered - a terrible flower of flesh moving in convulsive magenta spasms.
She was all victorious, all fire.
Then, naked again, fiery and fierce, she jumped into the flames, tearing at them, ensnaring and possessing them as they twined drunkenly about her.
But, at last, exhausted after all these strange convulsions, she landed, in one prodigious leap, like a meteor - a flame-haired meteor - in the lake that a thousand hidden lights painted an ashy blue.
Then came the apotheosis.
As the blue water received her body, it grew red as burning coals, troubled and burned by her flesh which the fire had penetrated... And in her desire to extinguish that fire, the naked, possessed creature plunged in, but the deeper in she went, the brighter the light about her.
Until at last, mysteriously, the fire faded into gold and her dead body floated, heraldic, upon the gilded waters - now calm and dead as well.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Normal light filled the room again. Only just in time. Women flailed about in the grip of hysteria; men with flushed faces made incoherent gestures.
The doors opened and we, lost and hatless, found ourselves once more out in the street, aflame, perplexed. The cool night air beat about us, forcing us awake, as if we had just returned from a dream all three of us had dreamed. Dumbstruck, we looked at each other with troubled eyes...
The marvels we had seen had made such a powerful impression on us that we hadn't the strength to say a word.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

across & beyond - a transmediale Reader on Post-digital Practices, Concepts, and Institutions

Daïchi Saito proposes a personal reflection on language and the image, a meditation that does not strive to theorize practice, but to recount it.

Thor Garcia - By turns defiant, paranoid, brooding, absurd and knock-down funny. Like Hunter S. Thompson meets Russ Meyer’s Under the Valley of the Supervixens meets Daft Punk – wearing a press pass and a smiley badge to a San Francisco gangbang