‘There’s a whipping room upstairs,’ she said, ‘if you’re interested.’ No. I’d be bored. I knew about whipping. I’d heard it all from my friend the priest. Saints love to be whipped and I’ve seen pictures galore of their extatic scars and longing glances. Watching an ordinary person being whipped couldn’t have the same effect. Saintly flesh is soft and white and always hidden from the day. When the whip finds it out, that is the moment of pleasure, the moment when what was hidden is revealed.
