Status Updates From Maldoror and the Complete W...

definitive symmetry in the quaternary

irrevocable and mesmeric and ecstatic and ineffable

Il est dans mes "currently reading" depuis 6 mois s'cusez le. Je lis 15 pages aux 2 semaines en ratatinant dans mon bain.

perspicacious and seraphic

6th and final Canto

lugubrious

surreptitious

To sing of boredom, suffering, miseries, melancholias, death, darkness, the somber, etc., is wanting at all costs to look only at the puerile reverse of things. Lamartine, Hugo, Musset have voluntarily metamorphosed into sissies.

The feelings weep when must, as when they need not. Analysis of the feelings does not weep. It possesses a latent sensibility which catches one off guard, prevails over miseries, teaches how to dispense with a guide, provides a combat weapon. The feelings, sign of weakness, are not feeling! The analysis of feeling, sign of strength, generates the most magnificent feelings I know.

Criticism must attack the form, never the content of your ideas, of your language. Settle it among yourselves. The feelings are the most incomplete form of reasoning that can be imagined. All the water in the sea would not suffice to wash away one intellectual bloodstain.

To construct mechanically the brain of a somniferous tale, it is not enough to dissect nonsense & mightily stupefy the reader's intelligence with renowned doses, so as to paralyze his faculties for the rest of his life by the infallible law of fatigue; one must, besides, with good mesmeric fluid, make it somnambulistically impossible for him to move, against his nature forcing his eyes to cloud over...

Beautiful as the congenital malformation of a man's sexual organs, consisting of the relative brevity of the urethral canal & the division or absence of its lower wall so that this canal opens at a variable distance from the gland & below the penis; or again, as the fleshy wattle, comical in shape, furrowed by quite deep transversal wrinkles, which rises from the base of the turkey's upper beak...

First I'm going to blow my nose, because I need to; & then, mightily aided by my hand, shall again take up the penholder my fingers had let fall.

He contemplates the moon which pours upon his breast a cone of ecstatic beams, in which silvery atoms of ineffable softness flutter like moths. He waits for morning's half-light to bring, by a scene change, an absurd relief to his upset heart.

I would have plunged my prick through its blood-stained sphincter, smashing the very walls of its pelvis with my impetuous movements! Misfortune would not then have blown into my blinded eyes entire dunes of shifting sand; I would have discovered the subterranean place where truth lies sleeping, & the rivers of my vicious sperm would thus have found an ocean in which to rush headlong!