Story of the Eye

by Georges Bataille

To others, the universe seems decent because decent people have gelded eyes. That is why they fear lewdness. They are never frightened by the crowing of a rooster or when strolling under a starry heaven. In general, people savour the “pleasures of the flesh” only on condition that they be insipid.

But as of then, no doubt existed for me: I did not care for what is known as “pleasures of the flesh” because they really are insipid; I cared only for what is classified as “dirty”. On the other hand, I was not even satisfied with the usual debauchery, because the only thing it dirties is debauchery itself, while, in some way or other, anything sublime and perfectly pure is left intact by it. My kind of debauchery soils not only my body and my thoughts, but also anything I may conceive in its course, that is to say, the vast starry universe, which merely serves as a backdrop.

“Do you see the eye?” she asked me. “Well?” “It’s an egg,” she concluded in all simplicity. “All right,” I urged her, extremely disturbed, “what are you getting at?” “I want to play with this eye.” “What do you mean?” “Listen, Sir Edmund,” she finally let it out, “you must give me this at once, tear it out at once, I want it!”