The Songs of Maldoror (Song II)

The Songs of Maldoror

Song II

Chapter 1

Where has that first song of Maldoror gone since his mouth, stuffed with belladonna leaves, let it slip through the realms of rage in a moment of thought? Where has that song gone… No one knows for sure. It wasn’t the trees or the winds that kept it. And morality, passing by that spot, never guessing it had a fierce defender in those glowing pages, watched it stride — firm and straight — toward the dark corners and hidden threads of consciences. What science at least has gained is this: since then, man, with his toad-like face, no longer knows himself and often falls into fits of fury that make him seem a wild beast. It’s not his fault. Through all ages, he’d believed, his eyelids drooping under modesty’s mignonettes, that he was made of good with just a pinch of evil. I suddenly taught him, laying bare his heart and its workings in broad daylight, that he’s made of evil instead, with just a pinch of good that lawmakers struggle to keep from fading. I’d wish he didn’t feel — me, who tells him nothing new — an endless shame for my bitter truths; but that wish wouldn’t fit nature’s laws. Indeed, I rip the mask from his treacherous, mud-smeared face and topple, one by one, like ivory balls on a silver bowl, the grand lies he fools himself with: it’s no wonder he doesn’t call calm to lay hands on his face, even when reason scatters pride’s shadows. That’s why the hero I bring to life has earned an undying hatred, striking at humanity — thinking itself untouchable — through the gap of its absurd, do-good rants; they pile up like grains of sand in its books, whose comic twist I sometimes nearly prize when reason slips away — though it’s dull. He foresaw it. Carving goodness’s statue on the pediments of library scrolls isn’t enough. O human being! Here you stand, naked as a worm, before my diamond blade! Drop your ways; it’s too late for pride — I send my plea soaring toward you, bowed in surrender. Someone watches your every guilty move; you’re caught in the fine web of his relentless insight. Don’t trust him when he turns his back — he’s watching; don’t trust him when he shuts his eyes — he’s still watching. It’s hard to imagine your cunning and malice could outdo the fearsome resolve of my brainchild. His slightest blows hit home. With care, you might teach someone who thinks he doesn’t know that wolves and bandits don’t devour each other — maybe it’s not their way. So hand your life to him without fear: he’ll steer it as he knows how. Don’t believe the intent he flaunts in the sun to reform you; you barely interest him, if at all — I’m still shy of the full truth with my kind measure. No, he loves to hurt you, firmly convinced you’ll grow as wicked as he is and join him in hell’s gaping pit when that hour strikes. His spot’s long been marked where an iron gallows stands, hung with chains and collars. When fate drags him there, that grim funnel will never taste a sweeter prize, nor he gaze on a fitter home. I seem to speak with a fatherly tone on purpose, and humanity has no right to complain.

Chapter 2

I grasp the pen to craft the second song… a tool torn from the wings of some red hawk! But… what’s wrong with my fingers? Their joints freeze up the moment I start my work. Still, I need to write… It’s impossible! Well, I say again I need to write my thoughts: I have the right, like anyone, to obey this natural law… But no, no, the pen stays lifeless!… Look, see the lightning flash across the fields in the distance. The storm sweeps through the air. It’s raining… It keeps raining… How it rains!… Thunder crashes — it strikes my half-open window and knocks me to the floor, hit on the forehead. Poor young man! Your face was already painted enough with early wrinkles and birth’s deformity — you didn’t need this long, sulfurous scar on top! (I just assumed the wound’s healed, though that won’t happen soon.) Why this storm, and why the paralysis in my fingers? Is it a warning from above to stop me from writing and make me think harder about what I’m risking, spilling the venom from my square jaw? But this storm hasn’t scared me. What would a legion of storms matter to me! These sky-police agents carry out their grim duty with zeal, if I judge roughly by my wounded brow. I won’t thank the Almighty for his stunning aim; he sent the bolt to split my face in two right from the forehead, where the wound was most dangerous — let someone else praise him! But storms attack someone stronger than they are. So, dreadful Eternal, with your viper’s face, it wasn’t enough to trap my soul between madness and the rage-filled thoughts that kill slowly — you thought it fit your majesty, after deep thought, to carve a cup of blood from my brow too!… But who’s saying anything to you? You know I don’t love you, that I hate you instead: why do you keep at it? When will your behavior stop cloaking itself in oddity? Speak straight, like a friend: don’t you finally suspect that your vile hounding shows a naïve zeal no seraph would dare call fully absurd? What fury grips you? Know that if you let me live free of your pursuit, I’d owe you my gratitude… Come on, Sultan, lick this blood off the floor with your tongue. The bandage is done: my stanched brow’s been washed with saltwater, and I’ve wrapped strips across my face. The tally’s not endless: four blood-soaked shirts and two handkerchiefs. At first glance, you wouldn’t think Maldoror held so much blood in his veins; his face only glimmers with a corpse’s sheen. But that’s how it is. Maybe that’s nearly all the blood his body could hold, and there’s likely not much left. Enough, enough, greedy dog — leave the floor as it is; your belly’s full. Don’t keep drinking — you’ll soon throw it up. You’re nicely stuffed, go sleep in the kennel; count yourself swimming in bliss — you won’t think of hunger for three long days, thanks to the blood you’ve gulped down your throat with solemn glee. You, Léman, grab a broom — I’d take one too, but I haven’t the strength. You see I haven’t the strength, don’t you? Sheathe your tears — or I’ll think you lack the guts to coolly face the great gash from a torment already lost to me in the haze of times past. Go fetch two buckets of water from the spring. Once the floor’s scrubbed, put these rags in the next room. If the washerwoman comes tonight, as she’s supposed to, give them to her — but with all this rain falling for an hour and still pouring, I doubt she’ll leave her place; she’ll come tomorrow morning then. If she asks where all this blood came from, you don’t have to answer. Oh, how weak I am! No matter — I’ll still find the strength to lift this pen and the grit to dig into my thoughts. What did it gain the Creator to plague me like a child with a storm that brings lightning? I stick to my resolve to write all the same. These bandages annoy me, and my room’s air reeks of blood…

Chapter 3

May the day never come when Lohengrin and I pass each other in the street, side by side, not looking, brushing elbows like two rushed strangers! Oh, let me flee forever from that thought! The Eternal made the world as it is: he’d show plenty of wisdom if, just long enough to smash a woman’s head with a hammer blow, he’d set aside his starry majesty to unveil the mysteries choking our lives — like a fish stranded in a boat. But he’s grand and noble; he outshines us with the might of his designs — if he spoke with men, every shame would splash back onto his face. But… wretch that you are! Why don’t you blush? It’s not enough that the army of physical and moral pains surrounding us was spawned — the secret of our tattered fate stays hidden. I know the Almighty… and he must know me too. If we chance to tread the same path, his piercing gaze spots me from afar: he darts down a side trail to dodge the triple platinum dart nature gave me for a tongue! You’d please me, O Creator, by letting me pour out my feelings. Wielding awful ironies with a steady, cold hand, I warn you my heart holds enough to strike at you till my life’s end. I’ll pound your hollow shell — so hard I’ll force out the last scraps of wit you refused to share with man, jealous of making him your equal, and shamelessly stashed in your guts, you sly crook — as if you didn’t know I’d spot them one day with my ever-open eye, snatch them away, and split them with my kind. I’ve done as I say, and now they don’t fear you — they deal with you as equals. Give me death to repent my boldness: I bare my chest and wait humbly. Show yourselves, then, laughable spans of eternal punishment!… pompous displays of overhyped traits! He’s proved powerless to stop my taunting blood from flowing. Yet I’ve proof he doesn’t hesitate to snuff out others’ breath in their prime, when they’ve barely tasted life’s joys. It’s simply monstrous — though only by my feeble reckoning! I’ve seen the Creator, spurring his pointless cruelty, set blazes where old folks and kids burned! I’m not the one starting this fight — he forces me to spin him like a top with a steel-cord whip. Isn’t it he who hands me charges against himself? My frightful verve won’t dry up! It feeds on the wild nightmares haunting my sleepless nights. It’s because of Lohengrin that all this was written — so let’s turn back to him. Fearing he’d grow like other men, I’d first decided to kill him with knife blows once he passed innocence’s age. But I thought it over and wisely dropped that plan in time. He doesn’t suspect his life hung in the balance for a quarter-hour. Everything was set — the knife was bought. That dagger was cute, for I love grace and style even in death’s tools; but it was long and sharp. One stab to the neck, carefully piercing a carotid artery, and I think that would’ve done it. I’m glad of my choice — I’d have regretted it later. So, Lohengrin, do as you please, act as you like, lock me in a dark prison with scorpions for cellmates all my life, or rip out an eye till it drops to the ground — I’ll never cast you the slightest blame; I’m yours, I belong to you, I don’t live for myself anymore. The pain you’d cause me won’t match the joy of knowing that he who wounds me with murderous hands is steeped in a essence more divine than his kind’s! Yes, it’s still fine to give your life for a human being and keep the hope that not all men are wicked — since one, at last, has forced my bitter, wary sympathy to bend toward him!

Chapter 4

It’s midnight — not a single omnibus runs from Bastille to Madeleine anymore. Wait, I’m wrong — here’s one popping up out of nowhere, as if it rose from underground. The few late stragglers stare hard at it — it doesn’t look like any other. Up top, men sit with eyes fixed, like a dead fish’s. They’re packed tight against each other, seeming lifeless — though their number doesn’t break the rules. When the driver cracks his whip at the horses, it’s as if the whip moves his arm, not his arm the whip. What must this bunch of weird, silent beings be? Moon-dwellers? You’d think so sometimes — but they look more like corpses. The omnibus, rushing to reach the last stop, eats up the distance, making the pavement groan… It’s fleeing!… But a shapeless mass chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust.

“Stop, I beg you — stop… my legs are swollen from walking all day… I haven’t eaten since yesterday… my parents ditched me… I don’t know what to do… I’ve decided to head home, and I’d get there quick if you’d give me a spot… I’m just an eight-year-old kid, and I trust you…”

It’s fleeing!… It’s fleeing!… But a shapeless mass chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust. One of those cold-eyed men nudges his neighbor, seeming to grumble about those silver-toned whimpers reaching his ear. The other dips his head slightly in agreement, then sinks back into his selfish stillness, like a turtle in its shell. The others’ faces show the same feelings as the first two. The cries ring out for two or three minutes more, sharper every second. Windows crack open along the boulevard — a startled face, lamp in hand, peers at the street, then slams the shutter shut and vanishes… It’s fleeing!… It’s fleeing!… But a shapeless mass chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust. Alone among these stone figures, a young man lost in dreams seems to feel pity for the misfortune. For the kid who thinks he can catch up on his sore little legs, he doesn’t dare speak — the others shoot him looks of scorn and command, and he knows he’s powerless against them all. Elbow on his knees, head in his hands, he wonders, stunned, if this is really what they call human kindness. He admits it’s just an empty word, not even found in poetry’s dictionary anymore, and owns up to his mistake. He tells himself: “Sure, why care about a little kid? Let him be.” Yet a hot tear rolls down this youth’s cheek — he just blasphemed. He drags his hand across his brow, as if to push away a cloud dimming his mind. He struggles, but in vain, in this age he’s been thrown into — he feels out of place, yet can’t escape. Brutal prison! Grim fate! Lombano, I’ve been proud of you since that day! I kept watching you while my face wore the same indifference as the other passengers. The youth rises in a flare of outrage, wanting to leave, not to share — even unwillingly — in this wrong. I signal him, and he sits back by my side… It’s fleeing!… It’s fleeing!… But a shapeless mass chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust. The cries stop cold — the kid tripped on a jutting stone and cracked his head falling. The omnibus vanishes over the horizon, leaving only the silent street… It’s fleeing!… It’s fleeing!… But a shapeless mass no longer chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust. Look at that ragpicker passing, hunched over his dim lantern — there’s more heart in him than in all those omnibus riders put together. He’s just picked up the kid — rest assured he’ll heal him and won’t ditch him like his parents did. It’s fleeing!… It’s fleeing!… But from where he stands, the ragpicker’s keen gaze chases it relentlessly, right on its heels, through the dust!… Stupid, mindless breed! You’ll regret acting like this. I’m the one telling you. You’ll regret it, mark my words — you’ll regret it! My poetry will be nothing but an attack, by every means, on man — that wild beast — and the Creator, who shouldn’t have spawned such vermin. Volumes will stack on volumes till my life’s end — and still, you’ll see just this one idea, ever burning in my mind!

Chapter 5

On my daily walk, I passed through a narrow street every day — every day a slim ten-year-old girl followed me, keeping her distance respectfully along that street, watching me with curious, friendly eyes. She was tall for her age, with a slender frame. Thick black hair, parted in two, fell in loose braids over her marble shoulders. One day, she trailed me as usual — a working woman’s muscled arms grabbed her by the hair like a whirlwind snags a leaf, landed two brutal slaps on her proud, silent cheek, and dragged that dazed little soul back into the house. I tried acting carefree in vain — she never failed to chase me with her now-unwelcome presence. When I stepped into another street to keep going, she’d stop at the end of that narrow one, forcing herself still like a statue of Silence, staring ahead until I vanished. Once, this girl got ahead of me in the street and matched my pace in front. If I sped up to pass her, she’d nearly run to keep the gap steady — but if I slowed down to widen the space between us, she’d slow too, adding a child’s grace to her steps. Reaching the street’s end, she turned slowly, blocking my way. I didn’t have time to dodge, and there I stood before her face. Her eyes were swollen and red. I could tell she wanted to speak but didn’t know how to start. Suddenly pale as a corpse, she asked: “Would you be kind enough to tell me the time?” I said I didn’t carry a watch and hurried off. Since that day, child with a restless, early imagination, you’ve never again seen the mysterious young man in that narrow street, painfully pounding the crooked crossroads’ stones with his heavy sandal. That blazing comet’s glow won’t shine again like a grim spark of fanatic curiosity on the wall of your let-down watchfulness — and you’ll think of him often, too often, maybe always: the one who seemed unbothered by life’s woes or joys, wandering aimlessly with a horribly dead face, hair bristling, steps shaky, arms blindly swimming through the ether’s mocking waves as if hunting the bloody prey of hope, endlessly tossed through space’s vast reaches by fate’s ruthless plow. You won’t see me again, and I won’t see you!… Who knows? Maybe that girl wasn’t what she seemed. Beneath a naïve shell, she might’ve hidden deep cunning, the weight of eighteen years, and the pull of vice. You’ve seen love-sellers sail cheerily from the British Isles, crossing the strait. They’d spread their wings, swirling in golden swarms before Paris’s lights — and when you spotted them, you’d say: “But they’re still kids — ten or twelve at most.” In truth, they were twenty. Oh, if that’s so, cursed be the twists of that dark street! Horrible — horrible — what goes on there! I think her mother hit her for not plying her trade slickly enough. Maybe she was just a child — then the mother’s guilt is even worse. Me, I won’t buy that guess — it’s just a hunch — and I’d rather love, in that dreamy soul, a spirit baring itself too soon… See, girl, I urge you not to cross my path again if I ever pass through that narrow street. It could cost you dear! Already blood and hate surge to my head in boiling waves. Me, generous enough to love my kind! No — no! I settled that the day I was born! They don’t love me, do they! You’ll see worlds crumble and granite glide like a cormorant over the waves before I touch a human’s vile hand. Back — back — that hand!… Girl, you’re no angel, and you’ll end up like other women. No — no — I beg you — don’t show up before my scowling, squinting brows again. In a fit of madness, I might grab your arms, twist them like wrung-out laundry, or snap them loud like dry branches and force you to eat them. I could cradle your head in my hands with a soft, sweet look — then sink my greedy fingers into your innocent brain’s lobes, pulling out, with a smile, a grease to soothe my eyes, sore from life’s endless sleeplessness. I could stitch your eyelids shut with a needle, cutting you off from the world’s sights, leaving you lost with no way forward — I won’t guide you. I could lift your virgin body with an iron arm, grip your legs, swing you around me like a sling, gather my strength for one last spin, and hurl you against the wall. Each drop of blood would splash onto a human chest, scaring men and setting my wickedness before them! They’d tear off strip after strip of flesh without end — but that blood drop stays, unerasable, shining like a diamond. Don’t worry — I’d order half a dozen servants to guard your hallowed remains, keeping them from the jaws of hungry dogs. Sure, your body’s stuck to the wall like a ripe pear and hasn’t hit the ground — but dogs can leap high if you’re not careful.

Chapter 6

This kid sitting on a bench in the Tuileries garden — how sweet he is! His bold eyes lock on some unseen spot far off in space. He can’t be older than eight — yet he’s not playing, as he should. At least he ought to be laughing and strolling with a friend instead of sitting alone — but that’s not his way. This kid sitting on a bench in the Tuileries garden — how sweet he is! A man, driven by a hidden aim, comes and sits beside him on the same bench with shady moves. Who is it? I don’t need to tell you — you’ll know him by his twisted talk. Let’s listen — don’t disturb them:

— “What were you thinking about, kid?”

— “I was thinking about heaven.”

— “You don’t need to think about heaven — it’s enough to think about earth. Are you tired of living, you who’ve barely been born?”

— “No, but everyone prefers heaven to earth.”

— “Well, not me. Since heaven was made by God just like earth, trust me — you’ll find the same troubles up there as down here. After you die, you won’t be rewarded for your worth — if you’re wronged on this earth (and you’ll feel that firsthand later), there’s no reason they won’t wrong you in the next life too. The best thing you can do is forget God and take justice into your own hands when it’s denied you. If one of your pals hurt you, wouldn’t you be glad to kill him?”

— “But that’s forbidden.”

— “It’s not as forbidden as you think. You just can’t get caught. The justice laws bring is worthless — what counts is the payback of the one who’s hurt. If you hated a pal, wouldn’t it bug you to have him stuck in your head every second?”

— “That’s true.”

— “So there’s a pal who’d make you miserable your whole life — seeing your hate’s just idle, he’d keep mocking you and hurting you without a scratch. There’s only one way to stop it: get rid of your enemy. That’s where I’m headed — to show you the roots of today’s world. Everyone’s got to deal out their own justice, or they’re a fool. The one who beats his kind is the slickest and strongest. Don’t you want to rule over them someday?”

— “Yes — yes.”

— “Then be the strongest and slickest. You’re too young to be the strongest yet — but starting today, you can use cunning, the finest tool of geniuses. When David the shepherd hit Goliath the giant square in the forehead with a stone from his sling, isn’t it stunning that he won just by smarts? If they’d grappled hand-to-hand, the giant would’ve squashed him like a fly. It’s the same for you. In open fight, you’d never top the men you want to bend to your will — but with cunning, you can take on everyone alone. You crave riches, grand palaces, fame — or were you lying when you claimed those fine ambitions?”

— “No — no — I wasn’t lying. But I’d like to get what I want some other way.”

— “Then you’ll get nothing at all. Soft, goody-goody ways lead nowhere. You need sharper levers and smarter traps. Before you’re famed for virtue and hit your mark, a hundred others will flip over your back and reach the finish line first — leaving no room for your tight little ideas. You’ve got to grab the present’s horizon with bigger guts. Haven’t you ever heard of the huge glory victories bring? And yet, victories don’t come on their own. You’ve got to spill blood — lots of blood — to birth them and lay them at conquerors’ feet. Without the corpses and scattered limbs you see on the plain where the slaughter was wisely done, there’d be no war — and without war, no victory. See, if you want fame, you’ve got to dive gracefully into rivers of blood fed by cannon fodder. The end justifies the means. The first step to fame is cash. Since you don’t have any, you’ll need to kill to get it — but as you’re not strong enough to wield a dagger yet, turn thief till your limbs bulk up. And to make them grow faster, I’d suggest gymnastics twice a day — an hour in the morning, an hour at night. That way, you can try crime with some luck by fifteen instead of waiting till twenty. The love of glory excuses everything — and maybe later, ruling your kind, you’ll do them almost as much good as you did harm at the start!…”

Maldoror notices the blood pounding in the kid’s head — his nostrils flare, his lips spit a faint white foam. He checks his pulse — it’s racing. Fever’s gripped this fragile frame. He fears what his words might do — he slips away, the wretch, annoyed he couldn’t talk to the kid longer. When it’s so hard to tame passions in grown years, torn between good and evil, what’s it like in a mind still green with inexperience — how much extra grit does it take? The kid will be laid up in bed for three days. May heaven grant a mother’s touch to bring peace to this tender flower — fragile shell of a fine soul!

Chapter 7

There, in a grove ringed with flowers, the hermaphrodite sleeps — deep in slumber on the grass, damp with their tears. The moon has cleared its disk from the cloud-mass, stroking this gentle teenage face with pale rays. Their features blend the boldest male strength with the grace of a heavenly virgin. Nothing seems natural about them — not even the muscles of their body, cutting through the smooth, harmonious curves of a woman’s form. One arm curves over their brow, the other hand presses their chest, as if to hush a heart sealed from all secrets and weighed by an endless hidden burden. Tired of life and ashamed to walk among beings unlike them, despair has seized their soul — they wander alone, like a valley’s beggar. How do they scrape by? Kind souls watch over them closely, unnoticed, never abandoning them — they’re so good, so meek! Sometimes they’ll talk willingly with sensitive types, never touching their hands, keeping a distance, fearing an imagined threat. If asked why they’ve chosen solitude as a friend, their eyes lift skyward, barely holding back a tear of blame toward Providence — but they don’t answer that rash question, which spreads the blush of a morning rose across the snow of their lids. If the chat drags on, they grow restless, glancing to the horizon’s four corners as if to flee an unseen foe drawing near, wave a quick goodbye with their hand, and slip off on the wings of their roused modesty, vanishing into the woods. Most take them for a madman. One day, four masked men, acting on orders, pounced on them and tied them tight, leaving only their legs free. The whip lashed its harsh straps across their back, and they were told to head straight for the road to Bicêtre. They smiled under the blows and spoke to them with such feeling and smarts — about human sciences they’d studied, showing deep learning for someone not yet past youth’s threshold, and about mankind’s fates, baring the poetic nobility of their soul — that their guards, horrified to their core by what they’d done, unbound their broken limbs, fell to their knees begging forgiveness (which was granted), and left, marked by a reverence not usually given to men. After that event, much talked about, their secret was guessed by all — but folks act like they don’t know, to spare them more pain — and the government grants them a decent pension to make them forget that, for a moment, someone tried to force them into a madhouse without checking first. They use half their money — the rest goes to the poor. When they see a man and woman strolling down a plane-tree lane, they feel their body split in two from bottom to top, each new half rushing to embrace one of the walkers — but it’s just a hallucination, and reason soon takes back control. That’s why they don’t mingle with men or women — their overwhelming shame, born from thinking they’re a monster, stops them from giving their burning sympathy to anyone. They’d feel they’d taint themselves and others. Their pride keeps chanting this rule: “Let each stay in their own nature.” Their pride, I said — they fear that linking their life to a man or woman might one day earn them blame for their body’s makeup, like it’s a massive flaw. So they retreat into their wounded self-respect, stung by this unholy thought that’s all their own, and stick to solitude amid torments, with no comfort. There, in a grove ringed with flowers, the hermaphrodite sleeps — deep in slumber on the grass, damp with their tears. Awake birds gaze in delight at this mournful face through the branches, and the nightingale holds back its crystal songs. The woods turn solemn as a tomb with the night-time presence of this luckless hermaphrodite. O lost traveler, by your adventurous spirit that made you leave your parents from the tenderest age — by the thirst-pains you endured in the desert — by the homeland you might seek after long exile in foreign lands — by your steed, your loyal friend, who bore with you exile and harsh climates your wandering mood chased — by the dignity far-off lands and uncharted seas lend a man, amid polar ice or under a scorching sun — don’t touch those curls spilled on the ground, mingling with green grass, with your hand like a breeze’s shiver. Step back a few paces — you’ll do better that way. This hair is sacred — the hermaphrodite willed it so. They don’t want human lips to kiss their locks, scented by mountain air, or their brow, shining right now like the sky’s stars. Better yet, believe a star itself dropped from its orbit, crossing space, to frame that grand brow with its diamond glow like a halo. Night brushes aside its gloom with a finger, dressing in all its charms to cheer this sleeper — this emblem of modesty, this flawless image of angelic innocence: the insects’ hum softens. Branches bend their thick heights over them to shield them from dew, and the breeze, strumming its tuneful harp, sends joyful chords through the universal hush toward those lowered lids, which seem to hear — still as stone — the measured concert of hanging worlds. They dream they’re happy — that their body’s nature has changed — or at least that they’ve flown on a purple cloud to another sphere, home to beings like them. Alas, may their illusion stretch till dawn’s waking! They dream flowers dance around them in a ring, like wild, giant garlands, soaking them in sweet scents while they sing a love hymn, cradled in the arms of a magically beautiful human. But it’s just a twilight mist their arms entwine — and when they wake, those arms won’t hold it anymore. Don’t wake, hermaphrodite — don’t wake yet, I beg you. Why won’t you trust me? Sleep… sleep forever. Let your chest rise chasing the wild hope of happiness — I’ll allow it — but don’t open your eyes. Oh — don’t open your eyes! I want to leave you like this, to not see you wake. Maybe one day, with a hefty book, in heartfelt pages, I’ll tell your tale, stunned by what it holds and the lessons it yields. So far, I couldn’t — each time I tried, heavy tears soaked the paper, and my fingers shook, not from age. But I want that courage at last. I’m outraged that my nerves are no tougher than a woman’s, that I faint like a little girl every time I dwell on your vast misery. Sleep… sleep forever — but don’t open your eyes. Oh — don’t open your eyes! Farewell, hermaphrodite! Every day, I won’t fail to pray to heaven for you (I wouldn’t for myself). May peace fill your heart!

Chapter 8

When a woman with a soprano voice lets out her vibrant, tuneful notes, hearing that human harmony fills my eyes with a hidden flame, sparking painful glints — while my ears seem to ring with cannon-fire’s alarm. Where does this deep disgust for all things human come from? If chords soar from an instrument’s strings, I listen with delight to those pearly notes slipping in rhythm through the air’s elastic waves. My hearing catches only a melting sweetness that softens my nerves and mind — an indescribable drowsiness wraps me in its magic poppies, like a veil dimming daylight, easing the sharp edge of my senses and the fierce pulse of my imagination. They say I was born in deafness’s arms! In my childhood’s early days, I couldn’t hear what was said to me. When, with great struggle, they taught me to speak, it was only after reading on paper what someone wrote that I could share my own thread of thoughts. One day — a cursed day — I was growing in beauty and innocence — everyone marveled at the divine youth’s smarts and kindness. Plenty of consciences blushed seeing those clear features where his soul had set its throne. People approached him only with awe, noting an angel’s gaze in his eyes. But no — I knew full well the happy roses of youth wouldn’t bloom forever, woven in wild garlands, on his modest, noble brow — kissed wildly by every mother. It started feeling like the universe, with its starry vault of smug, grating globes, might not be the grandest thing I’d dreamed of. So one day, worn out from kicking my heels along life’s steep path and staggering like a drunk through its dark catacombs, I slowly raised my spleen-sick eyes — ringed with a wide bluish circle — toward the sky’s curve and dared, so young, to pierce heaven’s mysteries! Finding nothing I sought, I lifted my startled eyelid higher — higher still — until I glimpsed a throne of human filth and gold — atop it, with idiot pride, sat he who calls himself the Creator, draped in a shroud of unwashed hospital sheets! He held a dead man’s rotting torso in his hand, lifting it from eyes to nose, nose to mouth — and once at his mouth, you can guess what he did. His feet dipped in a vast pool of boiling blood — its surface suddenly sprouting cautious heads like tapeworms in a chamber pot, only to sink back fast as an arrow — a well-aimed kick to the nose-bone was the known reward for breaking rules with a need to breathe elsewhere — after all, these men weren’t fish! Amphibians at best, swimming between layers in that vile muck!… Until, with nothing left in his hand, the Creator grabbed another diver by the neck with the first two claws of his foot — like pincers — and yanked him into the air, out of the reddish slime — that exquisite sauce! With this one, he did as with the last. He devoured the head first, then legs and arms, and finally the torso till nothing remained — he even crunched the bones. On and on, through the rest of his eternity. Sometimes he’d cry out:

— “I made you — so I’ve the right to do what I want with you. You’ve done me no wrong, I won’t say otherwise. I make you suffer — it’s for my pleasure.”

And he’d resume his cruel feast, working his lower jaw — stirring his brain-smeared beard. O reader, doesn’t that last bit make your mouth water? Not just anyone gets to eat such fine, fresh brain — fished from the lake just fifteen minutes ago! Limbs frozen, throat mute, I watched this scene a while. Three times I nearly toppled backward like someone hit by too strong a shock — three times I managed to stay upright. Not a fiber in me stood still — I shook like lava inside a volcano. At last, my chest so tight it couldn’t push out life’s air fast enough, my lips parted — and I let out a scream… a scream so piercing… I heard it! My ear’s shackles snapped open sharp — the drum burst under that blast of sound flung far from me with force — and a new thing happened in an organ nature had doomed. I’d heard a sound! A fifth sense woke in me! But what joy could I find in that discovery? From then on, human sound reached my ear only with the pain pity stirs for a vast wrong. When someone spoke to me, I recalled what I’d seen that day above the visible spheres — and the burst of my choked feelings in a wild howl, its pitch matching my kind’s! I couldn’t reply — the torments heaped on man’s weakness in that hideous purple sea roared past my brow like flayed elephants, their fiery wings grazing my scorched hair. Later, knowing humanity better, that pity mixed with fierce rage against this tiger-stepmother — whose hardened spawn only curse and do evil. The gall of lies! They say evil’s rare among them!… Now it’s long done — long since I stopped speaking to anyone. O you — whoever you are — when you’re near me, let no tone slip from your throat’s strings — don’t strain your still larynx to outdo the nightingale — don’t even try baring your soul to me with words. Keep a holy silence nothing breaks — cross your hands humbly on your chest and lower your lids. I’ve told you: since that vision showed me the ultimate truth, enough nightmares have greedily sucked my throat through nights and days for me to dare — even in thought — relive the agony of that hellish hour chasing me endlessly with its memory. Oh — when you hear the avalanche crash from the cold mountain’s peak — the lioness wail in the barren desert for her lost cubs — the storm fulfill its fate — the condemned roar in prison the night before the guillotine — and the fierce octopus recount its triumphs over swimmers and castaways to the sea’s waves — tell me, aren’t those grand voices finer than man’s snicker!

Chapter 9

There’s an insect men feed at their own expense. They owe it nothing — but they fear it. This creature, shunning wine for blood, could — if its rightful needs went unmet — tap some hidden power to swell as big as an elephant and crush men like wheat stalks, thanks to an occult force. So you should see how they respect it — how they surround it with dog-like devotion — how they rank it high above creation’s beasts. They give it their heads as a throne, and it hooks its claws into their hair-roots with dignity. Later, when it’s fat and hits old age, following an ancient tribe’s custom, they kill it to spare it age’s bite. They throw it a grand funeral, like a hero’s — the coffin, carried straight to the grave’s lid, rests on the shoulders of top citizens. Over the damp earth the gravedigger turns with his shrewd spade, they weave colorful phrases about the soul’s immortality, life’s emptiness, and Providence’s baffling will — then marble seals shut forever this hard-lived existence, now just a corpse. The crowd scatters, and night soon cloaks the graveyard’s walls in shadow.

But take heart, humans, over its painful loss. Here comes its countless kin — a generous gift from it to soften your despair, sweetened by these grumpy runts who’ll grow into splendid lice, decked in striking beauty — sage-paced monsters. With its motherly wing, it hatched dozens of cherished eggs in your hair, parched by the fierce sucking of these dreaded strangers. The time came fast when the eggs burst. Don’t worry — these young philosophers won’t take long to grow through this fleeting life. They’ll grow so much you’ll feel it — with their claws and suckers.

You folks don’t know why they don’t gnaw your skull’s bones — why they settle for pumping out your blood’s essence with their tubes. Wait a sec — I’ll tell you: it’s because they lack the strength. Rest assured — if their jaws matched their endless cravings, your brain, eye retinas, spine — your whole body — would be gone. Like a drop of water. On a young street beggar’s head, watch a louse at work through a microscope — you’ll tell me how it goes. Sadly, they’re small — these long-haired bandits. They’d flop as conscripts — they don’t meet the law’s height rules. They belong to the tiny-legged Lilliputian world — even the blind slot them with the infinitely small. Woe to the whale that fights a louse — it’d be gulped down in a blink despite its size. No tail left to spread the news. An elephant lets you pet it — a louse doesn’t. I wouldn’t risk that dangerous test. Watch out if your hand’s hairy — or just made of bone and flesh — your fingers are done. They’ll crack like they’re on the rack. Skin vanishes by some weird spell. Lice can’t wreak as much havoc as their minds plot. If you spot one in your path, steer clear — don’t lick its tongue’s buds. Something bad would happen — it’s been seen. No matter — I’m already pleased with how much harm it does you, O human race — I just wish it did more.

How long will you cling to the worm-eaten worship of that god — deaf to your prayers and the generous offerings you burn for atonement? Look — that awful manitou isn’t grateful for the wide bowls of blood and brains you spill on his altars, piously decked with flower garlands. He’s not grateful — earthquakes and storms keep raging since the start of things. And yet — a sight worth noting — the colder he acts, the more you adore him. You clearly distrust the traits he hides — your reasoning hinges on this: only a god of extreme might could show such scorn for the faithful who follow his creed. That’s why every land has its own gods — here the crocodile, there the love-seller — but at the sacred name of the louse, universally kissing their bondage chains, all nations kneel together on the grand porch before the shapeless, bloodthirsty idol’s pedestal. Any people dodging their crawling instincts — hinting at revolt — would vanish from the earth sooner or later like an autumn leaf, wiped out by the relentless god’s revenge.

O louse with shriveled pupils — as long as rivers spill their slopes into sea’s depths — as long as stars track their orbits — as long as mute void lacks a horizon — as long as mankind rips its own guts with deadly wars — as long as divine justice hurls vengeful bolts at this selfish globe — as long as man denies his maker and mocks him — not without cause — mixing in contempt — your reign over the universe will hold firm, and your dynasty will stretch its coils century after century. I hail you, rising sun — heavenly liberator — you, mankind’s unseen foe. Keep telling filth to join him in impure embraces — to swear by oaths not scratched in dust that she’ll stay his faithful lover forever. Kiss her shameless robe now and then — a nod to the big favors she never fails to do you. If she didn’t lure man with her lustful breasts, you likely couldn’t exist — you, spawn of that sensible, fitting match. O son of filth — tell your mother that if she ditches man’s bed, wandering lonely roads alone and unsupported, her life will hang in the balance. Let her womb — which bore you nine months in its scented walls — stir a moment at the risks her tender, gentle, yet already cold and fierce fruit would face. Filth — queen of empires — keep showing my hate the slow swelling of your starving offspring’s muscles. To pull that off, you know you just need to cling tighter to man’s flanks. You can do it without shame’s fuss — you two have been wed a long time.

For me — if I may add a few words to this hymn of praise — I’ll say I built a pit forty square leagues wide and deep to match. There lies — in its foul virginity — a living louse-mine. It fills the pit’s bottom, then snakes out in thick, dense veins every which way. Here’s how I made that man-made mine: I tore a female louse from mankind’s hair. They saw me bed it three nights straight — then I tossed it in the pit. Human seed — useless in other cases like it — was taken this time by fate — and days later, thousands of monsters, squirming in a tight knot of matter, were born to the light. That hideous clump grew bigger over time — gaining mercury’s liquid flow — and split into branches that feed now by eating themselves (birth outpaces death) whenever I don’t toss them a newborn bastard whose mother craved its death — or an arm I slice off some girl at night with chloroform’s help. Every fifteen years, the louse broods feeding on man shrink noticeably — predicting their own total wipeout right on cue. Man — smarter than his foe — manages to beat it. Then, with a hellish shovel boosting my strength, I dig blocks of lice from that endless mine — big as mountains — smash them with an axe, and haul them through deep nights into city streets. There, warmed by human heat, they melt like in their early days in the mine’s twisting tunnels — carving beds in the gravel — flowing into homes like streams of spiteful spirits. The house-dog growls low — he senses a legion of unknowns piercing the walls’ pores, bringing dread to sleep’s edge. Maybe you’ve heard — at least once in your life — those pained, drawn-out barks. With helpless eyes, he tries to cut through night’s dark — his dog-brain can’t grasp it. That hum irks him — he feels betrayed. Millions of foes swarm each city like locust clouds — there’s your lot for fifteen years. They’ll fight man, stinging him raw. After that stretch, I’ll send more. When I crush those living blocks, one chunk might pack tighter than another. Its atoms rage to break apart and plague mankind — but their bond holds tough. In a final spasm, they strain so hard the stone — unable to loose its living bits — flings itself sky-high like a cannon blast, then crashes deep into the ground. Sometimes a dreamy farmer spots an aerolith slice straight down through space toward a cornfield — he doesn’t know where it came from. Now you’ve got a clear, short take on the phenomenon.

If earth were coated with lice like sand grains line the shore — the human race would be wiped out — gripped by awful pain. What a sight! Me — with angel wings — hovering still in the air to watch.

Chapter 10

O stern mathematics — I haven’t forgotten you since your wise lessons — sweeter than honey — seeped into my heart like a cool stream. From the cradle, I instinctively craved to drink from your spring — older than the sun — and I still tread the sacred porch of your solemn temple — me — your truest disciple. My mind held a haze — something thick as smoke — but I learned to climb the steps to your altar with reverence — and you swept that dark veil away like wind scatters a chessboard. In its place, you gave me icy coolness — flawless caution — and relentless logic. With your bracing milk, my mind grew fast — stretching vast — amid that dazzling clarity you lavish on those who love you with real heart. Arithmetic! Algebra! Geometry! Grand trinity — shining triangle! Whoever hasn’t known you is a fool! They’d deserve the worst torments — there’s blind scorn in their careless ignorance — but whoever knows and prizes you wants nothing more of earth’s goods — content with your magic thrills — and borne on your dark wings — longs only to rise — on a light flight — tracing an upward spiral toward the sky’s round vault. Earth offers them only illusions and moral mirages — but you — O crisp mathematics — through the tight chain of your stubborn truths and the steady grip of your iron laws — you flash a fierce gleam of that supreme truth whose mark shines in the universe’s order.

But the order around you — shown best by the square’s perfect regularity — Pythagoras’s pal — is grander still — for the Almighty revealed himself and his traits fully in that epic work — pulling your theorem-treasures and stunning splendors from chaos’s guts. In ancient days and modern times, many a great human mind saw its genius — stunned — at your symbolic shapes sketched on scorching paper — like countless secret signs — alive with a hidden breath the common herd can’t grasp — just the blazing reveal of eternal axioms and hieroglyphs — there before the universe — and lasting after it. It wonders — leaning over a fatal question mark’s edge — how mathematics holds such towering grandeur and rock-solid truth — while compared to man — it finds only fake pride and lies. Then this sharp mind — saddened — made keener by your noble counsel — feels mankind’s smallness and wild folly all the more — resting its white head on a bony hand — lost in unearthly thoughts. It kneels before you — its awe honoring your divine face — like the Almighty’s own mirror.

In my childhood — one May night under moonlight — you appeared to me on a green meadow by a clear brook — all three equal in grace and modesty — all three regal as queens. You stepped toward me — your long robes flowing like mist — and drew me to your proud chest like a blessed son. I rushed eagerly — hands clenched on your pale throat. I fed thankfully on your rich manna — and felt humanity grow in me — turning better. Since then — O rival goddesses — I haven’t left you. Since then — how many bold plans — how many sympathies I thought carved in my heart like marble — haven’t your lines faded from my jaded reason — like dawn wipes away night’s shadows! Since then — I’ve seen death — plain as day — set on filling graves — ravage battlefields fattened with human blood — and sprout morning flowers over grim bones. Since then — I’ve watched earth’s upheavals — quakes — volcanoes with blazing lava — desert simooms — and storm-wrecked ships — as a cold-eyed witness. Since then — I’ve seen human generations lift their wings and eyes to the sky each morning — with a chrysalis’s green joy greeting its final change — and die by dusk before sunset — heads bowed like wilted flowers swayed by the wind’s mournful whistle. But you — you stay ever the same. No shift — no foul breeze — brushes the steep cliffs and vast valleys of your essence. Your modest pyramids will outlast Egypt’s — anthills raised by stupidity and slavery. The end of ages will still find your mystic numbers — terse equations — and sculpted lines seated at the Almighty’s vengeful right — while stars plunge in despair — like whirlwinds — into an awful, endless night — and mankind — grimacing — mulls settling scores with the last judgment.

Thank you — for the countless gifts you’ve given me. Thank you — for the strange strengths you’ve poured into my mind. Without you — in my fight with man — I might’ve lost. Without you — he’d have rolled me in the dirt — forced me to kiss his feet’s dust. Without you — he’d have clawed my flesh and bones with a sneaky swipe. But I stayed on guard — like a seasoned fighter. You gave me the chill born of your grand — passion-free — ideas. I used it to shrug off my short trip’s fleeting joys with scorn — to shut my door on my kind’s friendly but fake offers. You gave me the stubborn caution spelled out in every step of your stunning methods — analysis — synthesis — deduction. I used it to outfox my mortal enemy’s nasty tricks — to strike back with skill — and sink a sharp dagger into man’s guts — one that’ll stay lodged forever — a wound he won’t shake off. You gave me logic — the soul of your wise teachings — with syllogisms whose tangled maze only sharpens clarity — doubling my daring strength. With that fearsome aid — I swam to humanity’s depths — facing hate’s reef — and found the black — ugly — wickedness festering amid toxic fumes — gawking at its own navel. I was first to spot that vile vice — evil — in its dark guts — outranking good. With the poisoned tool you lent me — I toppled the Creator himself from his coward-built pedestal! He gnashed his teeth and took that shameful blow — he’d met a tougher foe. But I’ll leave him aside — like a bundle of strings — to lower my flight…

The thinker Descartes once mused that nothing solid was built on you. A clever way to hint that not just anyone can grasp your priceless worth right off. Really — what’s sturdier than those three core traits — twined like a single crown — rising atop your colossal structure? A monument ever-growing with daily finds in your diamond mines and bold treks through your grand realms. O holy mathematics — may your endless trade soothe the rest of my days — easing man’s evil and the Grand All’s injustice!

Chapter 11

“O silver-beaked lamp — my eyes spot you in the air — companion of cathedral vaults — and hunt for the reason you hang there. They say your glow lights up the night for the mob coming to worship the Almighty — that you guide the repentant to the altar. Listen — that might be true — but… do you need to do such favors for those you owe nothing? Leave the basilica’s columns sunk in dark — and when a storm’s gust — with the demon whirling on it through space — bursts into the holy place with him — spreading dread — don’t fight the fiend’s foul blast bravely — snuff out fast under his fevered breath — so he can pick his prey unseen from the kneeling faithful. Do that — and you can say I owe you all my joy. When you shine like that — casting your faint but ample light — I don’t dare give in to my nature’s urges — I linger under the sacred porch — peering through the half-open gate at those slipping my vengeance — safe in the Lord’s arms. O poetic lamp — you’d be my friend if you could grasp me — when my feet tread church basalt at night — why do you flare up in a way — I’ll admit — that strikes me as wild? Your gleam takes on the white hues of electric light — eyes can’t hold you — and you flood the Creator’s kennel with a bold, fresh flame — as if gripped by holy rage. And when I pull back after cursing — you fade back — dim and meek — sure you’ve done justice. Tell me — could it be — knowing my heart’s twists — that when I show up where you watch — you rush to mark my wicked presence — drawing the worshippers’ eyes to the spot where man’s foe just appeared? I lean toward that guess — I’m starting to know you too — I see who you are — old hag — guarding the sacred mosques so well — where your nosy master struts like a rooster’s crest. Watchful keeper — you’ve set yourself a mad task. I’m warning you — the first time you point me out to my kind’s caution with your glowing phosphor flare — since I don’t like that optical trick — not mentioned in any physics book anyway — I’ll grab you by your chest’s skin — hook my claws into your scabby neck — and toss you in the Seine. I’m not saying that when I leave you be — you act on purpose to hurt me. There — I’ll let you shine as much as I please — there — you’ll mock me with a grin that won’t quit — there — sure your guilty oil’s useless — you’ll pee it out with spite.”

After speaking, Maldoror doesn’t leave the temple — he stays — eyes locked on the sanctuary lamp… He thinks he sees a taunt in its stance — riling him to the hilt with its untimely presence. He tells himself that if a soul’s trapped in that lamp — it’s gutless not to answer a fair fight with honesty. He flails his tense arms in the air — wishing the lamp would turn human — he’d give it a rough quarter-hour — he swears it. But how could a lamp become a man — that’s not natural. He won’t give in — he goes to the wretched pagoda’s porch — grabs a flat, sharp-edged stone — and hurls it hard into the air… The chain snaps in half — like grass under a scythe — and the holy tool crashes down — spilling oil on the slabs… He snatches the lamp to drag it out — but it fights back and grows. He thinks he sees wings sprout on its sides — its top shaping into an angel’s chest. The whole thing tries to lift off — but he holds it firm. A lamp and an angel fused in one body — that’s not something you see every day. He knows the lamp’s form — he knows the angel’s — but his mind can’t split them — in reality — they’re stuck together — a single, free being — though he thinks some haze has blurred his eyes — dimming his sight’s sharpness. Still — he braces for a fight with grit — his foe’s fearless too. Simple folks tell believers the sacred gate shut itself — rolling on its grieving hinges — so no one could watch this unholy clash unfold inside the violated shrine.

The cloaked man — taking cruel blows from an unseen blade — strains to pull the angel’s face to his mouth — that’s all he thinks of — every move aims there. The angel’s strength fades — seeming to sense its fate. It barely fights now — you can see the moment its foe could kiss it at will — if that’s his aim. Well — that moment’s here. With his muscles — he chokes the angel’s throat — it can’t breathe — and tips its face back — pressing it to his hateful chest. For a flash — he’s touched by the doom awaiting this heavenly being — he’d have gladly made it his friend. But he tells himself it’s the Lord’s envoy — and he can’t hold back his wrath. It’s done — something awful’s about to slip back into time’s cage! He leans in — his saliva-soaked tongue brushing that pleading angelic cheek. He runs it over that cheek a while. Oh!… Look!… Look at that!… The white-pink cheek turns black as coal! It reeks with rotting fumes — gangrene — no doubt about it. The gnawing rot spreads over the whole face — then down to the lower parts — soon the whole body’s one vast — filthy sore. Even he’s horrified (he didn’t think his tongue held poison that fierce) — he grabs the lamp and bolts from the church.

Outside — he spots a dark shape in the sky — wings charred — struggling upward toward heaven’s calm heights. They lock eyes — as the angel climbs to the serene realms of good — and he — Maldoror — sinks toward evil’s dizzying depths… What a look! All humanity’s thought over sixty centuries — and what it’ll think for centuries more — could fit in it easy — so much passed in that final farewell! But you’d see those thoughts topped human wits — first — given the pair — and then — the moment. That look tied them in endless friendship. He’s stunned the Creator could send agents with souls so noble. For a second — he thinks he got it wrong — wonders if he should’ve walked evil’s path like he did. The doubt passes — he sticks to his resolve — proud — in his view — to one day topple the Grand All — to rule the universe and legions of angels just as fine in its place. The angel — wordless — signals it’ll regain its old form as it rises — drops a tear that cools the brow of the one who gave it gangrene — and fades bit by bit — like a vulture — climbing through the clouds.

The guilty one eyes the lamp — spark of all this. He races like a madman through the streets — heads for the Seine — and flings it over the rail. It spins a moment — then sinks for good into the muddy waters. Since that day — every night at dusk — a bright lamp rises and floats gracefully on the river’s surface near Napoleon Bridge — sporting two dainty angel wings instead of a handle. It glides slowly over the water — slips under the arches of Gare Bridge and Austerlitz Bridge — tracing its quiet wake on the Seine to Alma Bridge. There — it easily rides the current back — returning to its start after four hours. On and on — all night. Its white glow — like electric light — outshines the gas lamps lining both banks — threading between them like a lone — unbreakable queen — with an unquenchable smile — never spilling its oil in spite. At first — boats chased it — but it dodged those pointless hunts — diving like a flirt — popping up far off. Now — superstitious sailors spot it and row the other way — hushing their tunes.

When you cross a bridge at night — watch close — you’re sure to see the lamp gleam somewhere — but they say it doesn’t show itself to all. When a human with a guilty conscience steps on those bridges — it snuffs its shine sharp — and the passer — spooked — scans the river’s surface and muck with a frantic stare — finding nothing. He knows what it means. He’d love to think he saw that heavenly light — but tells himself it came from boat lanterns or gas-lamp reflections — and he’s right… He knows that vanishing is his fault — and sunk in grim thoughts — he hurries home. Then — the silver-beaked lamp resurfaces — gliding on through its wild — elegant swirls.

Chapter 12

Listen to my childhood thoughts, when I woke, humans, with a red rod:

— “I just woke up, but my mind’s still groggy. Every morning, I feel a weight in my head. I rarely rest at night, awful dreams plague me when I manage to sleep. By day, my mind wears itself out with weird musings, my eyes drifting aimlessly through space, and at night, I can’t sleep — so when am I supposed to rest? Still, nature demands its due. Since I scorn it, it pales my face and sets my eyes blazing with fever’s sour flame. Anyway, I’d love nothing more than to stop draining my mind with endless thinking, but even if I didn’t want to, my shaken feelings drag me down that slope anyway. I’ve noticed other kids are like me, but they’re even paler, their brows furrowed like grown men, our older brothers. O Creator of the universe, I won’t skip offering you my childish prayer’s incense this morning. Sometimes I forget it, and I’ve noticed those days I feel happier than usual; my chest opens up, free of all strain, and I breathe the fields’ sweet air easier — but when I do the tough duty my parents demand, sending you a daily hymn of praise, paired with the boredom its hard crafting brings, then I’m gloomy and ticked off all day — it doesn’t feel logical or natural to say what I don’t mean — and I seek out vast, lonely wastes. If I ask them why my soul’s in this odd state, they don’t answer. I’d love to love and adore you, but you’re too mighty, and there’s fear in my hymns. If one flick of your mind can destroy or spawn worlds, my weak prayers won’t help you; if, when it suits you, you send cholera to ravage cities or death to snatch all four ages of life in its claws, no picking or choosing, I don’t want ties with such a fearsome friend. It’s not hate steering my thoughts — I’m scared, really, of your hate — which, by some random whim, could burst from your heart and swell huge, like an Andes condor’s wingspan. Your shady games are beyond me, I’d likely be their first victim. You’re the Almighty, I won’t challenge that title, since you alone can claim it, your whims, grim or glad, bounded only by you — that’s exactly why walking beside your cruel sapphire robe would hurt me, not as your slave, but ready to be one any second. True, when you dive into yourself, probing your lordly ways, if a ghost of some past wrong done to this wretched humanity — always your loyalest pal — rears its stiff spine of vengeance before you, your wild eye drops a scared tear of late remorse, and then, hair bristling, you think, honest, you’ll hang your tiger-mind’s wild games forever on oblivion’s thorns, but I know too that steadfastness hasn’t lodged in your bones like stubborn marrow, and you — and your thoughts, cloaked in error’s black leprosy — slip back plenty into the grim lake of dark curses. I’d like to think those are mindless (though their deadly venom’s still there), that good and evil, fused, pour in wild leaps from your gangrened royal chest, like a torrent off a cliff, by some blind force’s secret charm, but nothing proves it. Too often, I’ve seen your filthy teeth snap with rage, your grand face, mossy with time, flush red-hot over some tiny speck men did, to linger long at this soft guess’s signpost. Every day, hands clasped, I’ll lift my humble prayer’s tones to you, since I must, but — please — don’t let your providence think of me, leave me aside, like a worm crawling underground. Know I’d rather gobble sea-plants from wild, unknown isles, swept by tropic waves in their foamy grip, than know you’re watching, slicing into my conscience with your snickering scalpel. It just bared all my thoughts to you, and I hope your caution will easily cheer the good sense they keep stamped on them. Beyond these qualms about how close or distant I should stay with you, my mouth’s ready, any hour of the day, to puff out, like fake breath, the flood of lies your glory sternly demands from every human, as dawn rises bluish, hunting light in dusk’s satin folds, like I hunt goodness, stirred by love of good. My years aren’t many, yet I already feel goodness is just a string of loud syllables — I’ve found it nowhere. You show your nature too plain, you should hide it with more skill. Still, maybe I’m wrong, maybe you mean to — you know better than anyone how to act. Men stake their pride on copying you, that’s why holy goodness doesn’t see its shrine in their fierce eyes: like father, like son. Whatever we should think of your smarts, I speak only as a fair critic — I’d love nothing more than to be proved wrong. I don’t want to flash the hate I bear you, that I nurse like a dear daughter — it’s better to hide it from your eyes, taking only, before you, the look of a stern judge tasked with checking your dirty deeds. That way, you’ll cut off all active ties with it, forget it, and crush that greedy bedbug gnawing your liver. I’d rather feed you dreamy, gentle words… Yes, you made the world and all in it — you’re perfect — no virtue’s missing — you’re mighty, everyone knows it. Let the whole universe sing your endless hymn every hour! Birds bless you, soaring over fields — the stars are yours… So be it!”

After starts like these, wonder that I’m what I am!

Chapter 13

I was hunting for a soul like mine, and I couldn’t find it. I scoured every corner of the earth; my stubbornness was pointless. Still, I couldn’t stay alone. I needed someone to back my nature, someone with my same thoughts. It was morning, the sun rose on the horizon in all its glory, and there before my eyes rose a young man too, his presence sprouting flowers in his wake. He came up to me, hand outstretched:

— “I’ve come to you, you who’ve been seeking me. Let’s bless this happy day.”

But I said:

— “Get lost, I didn’t call you, I don’t need your friendship…”

It was evening, night began draping nature in its dark veil. A beautiful woman, barely visible, cast her enchanting spell over me too, gazing at me with pity; yet she didn’t dare speak. I said:

— “Come closer, so I can make out your face clearly, the starlight’s too weak to show it from here.”

Then, with modest steps and downcast eyes, she trod the lawn’s grass, heading my way. The moment I saw her, I said:

— “I see kindness and justice have settled in your heart, we couldn’t live together. Now you admire my beauty, it’s floored plenty, but sooner or later you’d regret giving me your love; you don’t know my soul. Not that I’d ever betray you: a woman who gives herself to me with such abandon and trust, I give myself to her with just as much trust and abandon, but get this in your head — never forget it — wolves and lambs don’t trade soft looks.”

What did I need then, me, who spurned humanity’s finest with such disgust? What I needed, I couldn’t say. I wasn’t yet used to pinning down my mind’s quirks with the strict methods philosophy touts. I sat on a rock by the sea. A ship had just unfurled all sails to flee these waters; a tiny speck had popped up on the horizon, closing in bit by bit, shoved by the gale, growing fast. The storm was about to launch its assault; already the sky darkened, turning a black nearly as vile as man’s heart. The ship, a big war vessel, had just dropped all anchors to avoid smashing on the coast’s rocks. Wind howled furious from all four corners, shredding the sails. Thunderclaps burst amid lightning, unable to outdo the wails echoing from that baseless house, a drifting tomb. The swell’s roll hadn’t snapped the anchor chains, but their jolts had cracked a leak in the ship’s side — a gaping hole — the pumps couldn’t keep up with the salty waves crashing foamy onto the deck like mountains. The ship in distress fired alarm cannons, but it sank slow, majestic.

Whoever hasn’t seen a ship sink in a hurricane, amid flashing lightning and pitch dark, while those inside drown in despair you know well, hasn’t tasted life’s mishaps. At last, a universal cry of vast pain broke from the ship’s ribs as the sea doubled its brutal strikes — the cry human strength’s collapse wrings out. Each wraps themselves in resignation’s cloak, handing their fate to God. They huddle like sheep. The ship in distress fires alarm cannons, but it sinks slow, majestic. They’d worked the pumps all day — wasted effort. Night fell, thick, merciless, capping this charming scene. Each tells themselves, once in the water they won’t breathe; as far back as memory stretches, they recall no fish in their family tree, but they urge themselves to hold their breath as long as they can, stretching life by two or three seconds — that’s the bitter jab they’d throw at death. The ship in distress fires alarm cannons, but it sinks slow, majestic.

They don’t know the ship’s sinking spins the waves tight around themselves, muddy silt mixing with churned water; a deep force, a storm’s backlash from above, jerks the sea with twitchy jolts. So, despite the cool-headed stash they stock up, the soon-to-drown, after wider thought, should feel lucky to stretch life in the abyss’s swirls by half a normal breath, just to round it out — no way then to taunt death, their top wish. The ship in distress fires alarm cannons, but it sinks slow, majestic. Wrong, it’s not firing cannons anymore, it’s not sinking — the nutshell’s fully swallowed. O heaven, how can you live after tasting such thrills! I’d just been granted a front-row seat to the death-throes of a bunch of my kind — minute by minute, I tracked their anguish’s twists. Now, some old hag’s terrified bellow outbid the rest; now, a suckling babe’s lone yelp drowned out the helm’s orders. The ship was too far to catch the moans the gusts brought clear, but I pulled it closer with my will, and the optical trick was perfect. Every quarter-hour, when a gust, stronger than the rest, wailed grim through the startled petrels’ cries, splitting the ship with a lengthwise groan, boosting the moans of those set for death’s altar, I’d jab a sharp iron tip into my cheek, thinking to myself:

— “They hurt worse!”

At least I had a benchmark that way. From the shore, I’d yell at them, hurling curses and threats — I felt they must hear me! I felt my hate and words, crossing the gap, broke sound’s physical laws, landing clear in ears deafened by the raging sea’s roars! I felt they must think of me, venting impotent fury! Every so often, I’d glance at the cities, asleep on solid ground, and seeing no one guessed a ship was sinking a few miles off, crowned with raptors and propped by hollow-bellied water giants, I’d take heart — hope creeping back: their doom was sure! They couldn’t slip free! For extra measure, I’d grabbed my double-barrel shotgun, so if some castaway tried swimming to the rocks to dodge certain death, a bullet to the shoulder would shatter their arm, thwarting their plan. At the storm’s wildest peak, I saw a gutsy head bobbing desperate on the waves, hair bristling. He gulped liters of water, sinking into the abyss, tossed like a cork — but soon he’d pop up again, hair dripping, eyes fixed on shore, seeming to defy death. His cool was stunning — a wide, bloody gash, carved by some hidden reef’s spike, scarred his fearless, noble face. He couldn’t have been past sixteen; barely, through the lightning flashing the night, you could just make out peach fuzz on his lip. Now he was just two hundred meters from the cliff, and I could read his face easy — what guts! What unbreakable grit! How his head’s steady glare seemed to mock fate, slicing through the waves with force, their furrows parting hard before him! I’d settled it beforehand — I owed myself to keep my word: the final hour had struck for all, none would escape — that was my call, nothing would budge it. A sharp crack rang out, and the head sank fast — gone for good.

I didn’t take as much joy in that kill as you’d think, exactly because I was so fed up with always killing; I did it now out of plain habit, one you can’t shake, but it only gives a faint kick — the thrill’s dulled, toughened. What thrill could I get from this one human’s death when over a hundred more were about to play out their last fight with the waves for me, once the ship went under? That kill didn’t even have danger’s pull; human justice, lulled by that night’s brutal storm, slept in houses steps away. Now, with years weighing on my frame, I say it straight, like a solemn, top truth: I wasn’t as cruel as folks later claimed, but sometimes their evil worked its steady ruin for years on end; then my rage knew no bounds, I’d hit fits of cruelty, turning fearsome to anyone nearing my wild eyes, if they were my kind — a horse or dog, I’d let pass — did you catch what I just said? Sadly, that stormy night, I was in one of those fits; my reason had flown (usually I was just as cruel, but cagier), and anything falling into my hands that time had to die — I’m not here to excuse my wrongs, the fault’s not all on my kind, I’m just stating what is, waiting for the last judgment, already itching my neck… What’s the last judgment to me! My reason never flies off, like I said to trick you — and when I kill, I know what I’m doing; I didn’t mean to do anything else!

Standing on the rock, as the hurricane lashed my hair and cloak, I watched, rapt, that storm’s might tear into a ship under a starless sky. I tracked every twist of that drama, triumphant, from when it dropped anchors to when it sank, a grim cloak dragging those inside down to the sea’s guts. But the moment neared when I’d jump in as a player in nature’s wild scenes. When the spot where the ship fought showed clear it’d gone to spend its days on the seabed’s ground floor, some of those swept off with the waves bobbed back up — they grabbed each other, two by two, three by three, the way to not save their lives; their moves got clumsy, and they sank like leaky jugs… What’s this army of sea beasts slicing through the waves fast? Six of them, their fins strong, carving a path through the heaving swell. From all those humans flailing four limbs in that shaky realm, the sharks soon whip up an eggless omelet, splitting it by might-makes-right — blood blends with water, water with blood — their fierce eyes light the slaughter scene plenty…

But what’s that fresh churn in the waves, way out there on the horizon? Looks like a waterspout closing in — what strokes! I see what it is: a huge she-shark, come to join the duck-liver feast and munch cold cuts. She’s riled, starving as she arrives. A fight kicks off between her and the sharks, scrapping over the few twitching limbs drifting here and there, quiet, on the red cream’s surface. Left, right, she snaps bites that deal death, but three live sharks still circle, forcing her to twist every way to dodge their moves. With growing thrill, new to me, the shore-watcher tracks this odd naval clash — his eyes lock on that gutsy she-shark, teeth so fierce. No hesitation — he shoulders his gun and, with his usual aim, plants his second bullet in one shark’s gill, just as it crests a wave — two sharks left, raging harder. From the rock’s peak, the man with briny spit dives into the sea, swimming toward the pretty-colored mat, steel knife in hand, his constant companion. Now each shark faces a foe — he closes on his worn-out target, taking his time, and drives the sharp blade into its gut — the moving fortress shrugs off the last foe easy…

Now it’s the swimmer and the she-shark he saved, face to face — they stare into each other’s eyes a few minutes, each stunned to find such ferocity in the other’s gaze. They circle, swimming, never losing sight, muttering to themselves:

— “I’ve been wrong till now; here’s one meaner.”

Then, by unspoken pact, between the waves, they glide toward each other, mutual awe — the she-shark parting water with her fins, Maldoror thrashing it with his arms — both holding breath in deep respect, each eager to see their living mirror for the first time. At three meters apart, no effort, they crash together like magnets, embracing with dignity and thanks, as tender as a brother or sister. Fleshly cravings trail close behind that friendly show — two taut thighs clamp tight to the monster’s slimy skin like leeches — arms and fins wrap round the loved one’s form, cradling it with care — soon their throats and chests meld into one glaucous mass, reeking of seaweed — amid the storm still raging, lit by lightning, their wedding bed the foamy wave, rocked by an undercurrent like a cradle, tumbling into the abyss’s unknown depths — they join in a long, chaste, hideous coupling!... At last, I’d found someone like me!... I wasn’t alone in life anymore!... She had my same thoughts!... I faced my first love!

Chapter 14

The Seine drags a human body. In moments like this, it takes on a solemn air. The bloated corpse floats on the water, slips under a bridge’s arch, then reappears farther off, spinning slowly like a mill wheel, dipping now and then. A boatman hooks it with a pole as it passes and pulls it to shore. Before hauling the body to the Morgue, they leave it on the bank a while, hoping to bring it back to life. A dense crowd gathers around — those in the back, unable to see, shove the ones ahead as hard as they can. Each thinks to themselves:

— “I wouldn’t have drowned myself.”

They pity the young man who took his life, admire him, but don’t copy him. And yet he found it perfectly natural to kill himself — nothing on earth could satisfy him, and he aimed higher. His face is refined, his clothes rich. Is he even seventeen? That’s young to die! The stunned crowd keeps staring at him with fixed eyes. Night falls. Everyone drifts off quietly — no one dares flip the drowned man to drain the water filling his body — afraid of looking soft, each stays rooted, collar up. One walks off, whistling a shrill, absurd Tyrolean tune; another snaps their fingers like castanets.

Haunted by his dark thoughts, Maldoror rides by on horseback, fast as lightning. He spots the drowned man — that’s enough. At once, he reins in his steed and steps down from the stirrup. He lifts the young man without disgust and makes him spew water in gushes. The thought that this lifeless body might stir under his touch sends his heart leaping — a rare, fine feeling — and he doubles his effort. Vain efforts! Vain efforts, I said, and it’s true — the corpse stays limp, letting itself be turned every which way. He rubs the temples, massages this limb, that one, blows into the mouth for an hour, pressing his lips to the stranger’s — at last, he feels a faint beat under his hand on the chest. The drowned man lives! In that supreme moment, you could see wrinkles vanish from the rider’s brow, shedding ten years — but alas, they’ll return, maybe tomorrow, maybe the instant he leaves the Seine’s banks.

For now, the drowned man opens dull eyes and, with a wan smile, thanks his savior — but he’s still weak, unable to move. Saving a life — how noble! And how that deed makes up for wrongs! The bronze-lipped man, busy till now pulling him from death, looks closer at the youth — his features seem familiar. He thinks there’s not much difference between this blond, choked stranger and Holzer. See how they embrace, overflowing! No matter — the man with jasper eyes keeps up his stern mask. Without a word, he grabs his friend, sets him behind on the saddle, and the horse gallops off.

O Holzer — you who thought yourself so sensible and strong — haven’t you seen, by your own case, how tough it is to keep the cool you brag of in a despairing fit? I hope you won’t put me through such grief again — and I’ve promised you, for my part, never to try taking my life.

Chapter 15

There are hours in life when a man with lice-ridden hair casts wild, fixed stares at the green membranes of space, for he thinks he hears mocking jeers from a phantom ahead. He staggers and bows his head: what he heard was conscience’s voice. Then he bolts from the house like a madman, taking the first path his shock offers, and races across the rugged plains. But the yellow phantom keeps him in sight, chasing with equal speed. Sometimes, on a stormy night, while legions of winged octopuses, looking like distant crows, hover above the clouds, steering with stiff strokes toward human cities to warn them to change their ways, the dark-eyed pebble sees two beings pass in a lightning flash, one trailing the other, and wiping a stealthy tear of pity from its icy lid, it cries out:

— “Sure, he deserves it, it’s only justice.”

After saying this, it settles back into its fierce pose and keeps watching with a nervous twitch the man-hunt and the shadow-vagina’s wide lips, from which endless dark spermatozoa spill like a river, soaring into the grim ether, hiding all nature, and the lonely octopus legions with their vast bat-wing spread, now glum at these mute, indescribable flares. Meanwhile, the steeplechase goes on between the tireless runners, and the phantom spews fiery torrents from its mouth onto the human antelope’s scorched back. If, doing this duty, it meets pity trying to block its path, it yields grudgingly to her pleas and lets the man slip free. The phantom snaps its tongue as if telling itself it’ll quit the chase and heads back to its kennel until new orders come. Its doomed voice echoes to space’s farthest layers, and when its awful howl pierces a human heart, they say they’d rather have death for a mother than remorse for a son.

He buries his head to the shoulders in a dirt hole’s twists, but conscience turns that ostrich trick to vapor. The pit fades, a drop of ether; light appears with its ray-escort like curlews swooping on lavender, and the man faces himself, eyes open and pale. I’ve seen him head to the sea, climb a jagged, foam-lashed cliff, and plunge into the waves like an arrow. Here’s the miracle: the corpse resurfaced next day on the ocean, washed back to shore, this flesh-wreck. He pried himself from the sand-mold his body carved, wrung water from his wet hair, and took up life’s path again, brow mute and bent. Conscience judges our secret thoughts and deeds harshly and doesn’t err. Often powerless to stop evil, it hounds man like a fox, especially in the dark. Vengeful eyes, called meteors by clueless science, shed a livid glow, roll past, and mutter mystery words he gets. Then his bed shakes with his body’s jolts, crushed by sleepless weight, and he hears night’s vague rumors breathe grim — even the sleep-angel, struck dead on the brow by some stray stone, drops his task and climbs back to the skies.

Well, I step up to defend man this time, me, the scorner of all virtues, me, whom the Creator couldn’t forget since that glorious day I toppled heaven’s annals from their perch, where, by some vile trick, his power and eternity were logged, and clamped my four hundred suckers under his armpit, wrenching out awful screams. They turned to vipers as they left his mouth and slithered off to hide in brush and ruined walls, lurking day and night. Those screams, now crawling and ringed with countless coils, small, flat heads, sly eyes, swore to stalk human innocence; and when it strolls through thickets, ditch-sides, or dune-sands, it soon changes its mind, if there’s still time, for sometimes a man spots poison seeping into his leg’s veins from a near-invisible bite before he can turn back and flee. That’s how the Creator, keeping stunning cool amid the worst agony, pulls harm’s seeds from their own core to plague earth’s dwellers.

What shock hit him when he saw Maldoror, turned octopus, lunge at his body with eight monstrous legs, each a solid strap that could’ve easily wrapped a planet’s girth! Caught off guard, he thrashed a moment against that slimy grip, tightening more and more. I feared some nasty move from him; after gorging on his sacred blood’s globules, I yanked free from his grand frame and hid in a cave, my home ever since. After fruitless hunts, he couldn’t find me there — that was long ago — but now I think he knows where I lair; he steers clear of it. We live like two neighboring kings who know each other’s might, can’t beat one another, and are weary of past pointless fights. He fears me, I fear him; neither’s been downed, we’ve both felt the other’s rough blows, and that’s where it stands. Still, I’m ready to restart the fight whenever he wants — but let him not wait for some edge to suit his hidden schemes — I’ll always stay sharp, keeping an eye on him.

Let him stop sending conscience and its tortures to earth. I’ve taught men weapons to fight it off with advantage; they’re not yet skilled with it, but you know, for me, it’s like straw swept by wind, I care that little. If I wanted to seize this poetic debate’s chance, I’d add I value straw more than conscience, for straw’s useful to the ox chewing it, while conscience only flashes steel claws — they met a sorry flop the day they faced me — since conscience came from the Creator, I thought it right not to let it block my way. If it’d come with the modesty and humility fitting its rank, which it should’ve kept, I’d have listened — I didn’t like its pride — I stretched out a hand, crushed its claws under my fingers; they crumbled to dust under that growing squeeze, stretched out the other, ripped off its head, then whipped that woman out of my house, and never saw her again. I kept her head as a victory memento…

A head in hand, its skull gnawed, I stood on one leg like a heron at a cliff’s edge, carved into the mountain’s flank. They saw me descend to the valley while my chest’s skin stayed still and calm, like a tomb’s lid! A head in hand, its skull gnawed, I swam the deadliest gulfs, skirted fatal reefs, dove deeper than currents to watch sea monsters clash as a stranger, strayed from shore till my sharp eyes lost it; and hideous cramps, with their paralyzing pull, prowled round my limbs, cleaving waves with sturdy strokes, but didn’t dare come close. They saw me return safe to the beach while my chest’s skin stayed still and calm, like a tomb’s lid! A head in hand, its skull gnawed, I climbed a tall tower’s rising steps, reached the dizzy platform, legs worn, gazed at fields, sea, sun, sky, kicked the granite — it didn’t budge — defied death and divine wrath with a supreme jeer, and plunged like a stone into space’s maw. Men heard the loud, pained crash when the ground met conscience’s head, dropped in my fall. They saw me drift down, bird-slow, on an unseen cloud, pick up the head to force it to watch a triple crime I’d commit that day while my chest’s skin stayed still and calm, like a tomb’s lid!

A head in hand, its skull gnawed, I headed where guillotine posts rise, slid the sweet grace of three girls’ necks under the blade — executioner of high deeds — I loosed the rope with a lifetime’s knack; and the angled iron dropped, slicing three heads that eyed me gentle. Then I stuck mine under the heavy razor; the hangman primed his task — three times — it slid down the grooves with fresh force; three times, my fleshly shell, especially my neck, shook to its roots, like dreaming a house crushes you. The stunned crowd parted to let me pass from that grim square; they saw me elbow through their rippling waves, moving alive, head high, while my chest’s skin stayed still and calm, like a tomb’s lid! I’d said I’d defend man this time, but I fear my plea’s not truth’s voice; so I’d rather hush — humanity will cheer that choice with thanks!

Chapter 16

It’s time to rein in my inspiration and pause a moment on the way, like when you gaze at a woman’s vagina; it’s good to look back at the path I’ve carved and then, limbs rested, leap forward with a fierce surge. Churning out a draft in one breath isn’t easy, and wings tire plenty in a high flight — without hope or regret. No, let’s not drive the wild pack of picks and digs deeper through the blasting mines of this unholy song! The crocodile won’t tweak a word of the vomit spewed from under its skull. Too bad if some sneaky shadow, stirred by the noble aim of avenging humanity — unjustly hit by me — slips open my room’s door, brushing the wall like a gull’s wing, and plunges a dagger into the ribs of this wrecker of heavenly wrecks! Might as well let clay scatter its atoms this way as any other.