Σε συνέχεια των ηδέων αφιερωμάτων, αφ’ ενός του Μαύρου Γάτου, Το αιδοίο (ή «Φοβάμαι μη σού κάνω κακό») , και αφ’ ετέρου του Thas, Υάλω ίσος, υγρομέτωπος , παραθέτω και την άποψη του Henry Miller.
Ο Ian McShane διαβάζει ένα απόσπασμα από τον «Τροπικό του Αιγόκερω» του Χένρυ Μίλλερ.
(Σημειώνεται ότι το κείμενο είναι οδυνηρά συντετμημένο.)
Nothing is more difficult than to make love in a circus.
This is all a figurative way of speaking about what is unmentionable.
What is unmentionable is pure fuck and pure cunt.
What holds the world together, as I have learned from bitter experience, is sexual intercourse.
But this is not the way it looked to the men of Homer's time who were on the spot.
Nobody knows how the god Priapus looked when he was reduced to the ignominy of balancing a corkscrew on the end of his weeny. Standing that way in the shadow of the Parthenon he undoubtedly fell a-dreaming of far-off cunt; he must have lost consciousness of the corkscrew and the threshing and reaping machine; he must have grown very silent within himself and finally he must have lost even the desire to dream.
This is how things stood on the first day of sexual intercourse in the old Hellenistic world. Since then things have changed a great deal. It is no longer polite to sing through your weeny, nor is it permitted even to condors to shit purple eggs all over the place. All this is scatological, eschatological and ecumenical. It is forbidden. Verboten. And so the Land of Fuck becomes ever more receding; it becomes mythological. Therefore am I constrained to speak mythologically.
Christ is dead and mangled with quoits.
The vultures have eaten away every decomposing crumb of flesh.
There are cunts which laugh and cunts which talk: there are crazy, hysterical cunts shaped like ocarinas and there are planturous, seismographic cunts which register the rise and fall of saps: there are cannibalistic cunts which open wide like the jaws of the whale and swallow alive: there are also masochistic cunts which close up like the oyster and have hard shells and perhaps a pearl or two inside: there are dithyrambic cunts which dance at the very approach of the penis and go wet all over in ecstasy:
And there is the one cunt which is all, and this we shall call the super-cunt.
There is only the sustained feel of fuck, the fugitive in full flight, the nightmare smoking his quiet cigar.
Little Nemo walks around with a seven day hard-on and a wonderful pair of blue balls bequeathed by Lady Bountiful. It is Sunday morning around the corner from Evergreen Cemetery. It is Sunday morning and I am lying blissfully dead to the world…
My balls ache with the fucking that is going on, but it is all going on beneath my window, on the boulevard where Hymie keeps his copulating nest. I am thinking of one woman and the rest is blotto. I say I am thinking of her, but the truth is I am dying a stellar death. Years ago I lay on this same bed and I waited and waited to be born. Nothing happened. Except that my mother, in her Lutheran rage, threw a bucket of water over me.
And now I'm on the same bed and the light that's in me refuses to be extinguished. The world of men and women are making merry in the cemetery grounds. They are having sexual intercourse. God bless them, and I am in the Land of Fuck.
Vacuity is a discordant fulness, a crowded ghostly world in which the soul goes reconnoitering.
Πηγή: Henry Miller, TROPIC OF CAPRICORN, read by Ian McShane, PRELUDE Audiobooks (2 MC), Abridged Version