Nightshade and Damnations

by Gerald Kersh

Lalouette was an aristocrat among freaks. She drew great crowds. Having been born without arms and legs she had cultivated her lips and teeth, and the muscles of her neck, back and stomach, so that she could dress herself, wash herself, and, holding a brush or pencil in her lips, paint a pretty little picture in watercolors or write a letter in clear round longhand. They called her Lalouette because she could sing like a bird. One had the impression that she could do anything but comb her hair. She could even move a little, by throwing her weight forward and sideways in a strange rolling motion. Lalouette painted a little picture while we watched, and sang a little song, and my lady friend and I, overcome with admiration and with pity, agreed that a woman of her accomplishments might have been one of the greatest women in Europe if the Lord in His wisdom had seen fit to make her whole. For she was a lady, superbly educated, and extremely beautiful—a blonde with great black eyes and magnificent hair of white-gold. But there she was, a freak on a turntable; nothing but a body and a head, weighing fifty pounds.

Having killed a boar, Tick and Tack, in their pride, resolved to kill Gargantua.

Why?!

Time is more than a healer. It is a painter and decorator; a gilder and a glorifier. It converts the gritty particles of half-forgotten miseries into what sentimental old gentlemen call pearls of memory.

#kersh

I left no stone unthrown; explored every drainpipe; took three deep breaths, attached a stone to my feet, exhaled, and sank to the bottom of the cesspit with a hideous gurgle.

“Some people complain,” I said, “because men die and dogs go on living.” Busto made an unpleasant noise, with his tongue between his lips: “Pthut! Men is rubbish. Dogs is good.”

says busto, worst of the men

there are men whom one hates until a certain moment when one sees, through a chink in their armor, the writhing of something nailed down and in torment.