Emilie is fading from my days, my evenings and my dreams.
Even her white dress has darkened in my memory. I no longer blush
as I recall the mysterious marks of teeth I glimpsed one night below
her little belly. The last traces of dissimulation impeding the emotion
I was ready to feel have disappeared. That troupe of girls is lost forever, smiling uncertainly and with indifference as they remember
how their hearts were torn by passion and by half-treacherous
humility. Even her face has been exorcised at last, the face I modeled
in snow as a child, the face of a woman whose compliant cunt had
consumed her utterly.
I think of Emilie as a bronze statue. Marble bodies, too, are not
bothered by fleas. Her heart-shaped upper lip recalls an old world
coronation; the lower lip demanding to be sucked arouses visions of
harlotry. I was moving slowly beneath her, my head in the hem of her
skirt. I had a close-up view of the hairs on her calves, flattened in all
directions under her lace stockings, and I tried to imagine what kind
of a comb would be needed to smooth them back into place. I fell in
love with the fragrance of her crotch, a wash-house smell mingled
with that of a nest of mice, a pine needle lying forgotten in a bed of
lilies of the valley.
I began to suffer from optical illusions. When I looked at Clara
her body merged into the outline of Emilie’s with the tiny heel. When
Emilie felt like sinning, her cunt gave off the aroma of spice in a
hayrick. Clara’s fragrance was herbal. My hands are wandering
under her skirt, touching the top of a stocking, garter knobs, her
inner thigh—hot, damp and beguiling. Emilie brings me a cup of tea
wearing blue mules. I can never again be completely happy, tormented as I am by women’s sighs, by their eyes rolling in the
convulsions of orgasm.
Emilie never tried to penetrate the world of my poetry. She
looked at my garden from over the fence, so that everyday fruit and
ordinary berries seemed the awesome apples of some prehistoric
paradise. I moved foolishly along the paths, like a half-wit, like a useless dog with its nose in the grass tracking down death and fleeing its
own destiny. I was crazy, seeking to find again that moment when
shadows fell across a paved square somewhere in the south. Leaning
on the fence, Emilie sped on through life. I can see her so clearly:
getting up in the morning with her long hair loose, going to the lavatory to piss, sometimes to shit, and then washing with tar soap. Her
crotch made fragrant, she hurried to mingle with the living, to rid
herself of the feeling that she was at a fork in the road.
Emilie’s smile was a wonderful thing to watch! Her mouth
seemed a dried-out hollow, but as you drew near to this upper lode
of pleasure, you could hear something trembling down inside her. As
she parted her lips for you, a knob of red flesh burst from between
her teeth. Age fondles time lovingly. Morality is only safe at home in
the arms of abandonment. Her eyes—which never closed at the
height of her pleasure—would take on a gleam of heavenly delight
and looked ashamed of what her lips were doing.
In the corners where I seek my lost youth, I come upon golden
curls carefully laid away. Life is one long waste of time. Every day
death nibbles away at what we call life and life constantly consumes
our longing for trivialities. The idea of the kiss dies before ever the
lips meet and every portrait pales before we can look at it. In the end,
worms will eat through this woman’s heart too and grin in her
entrails. Who could swear then that you had ever existed? I saw you
with a lovely naked girl of astonishing whiteness. She lifted her
hands and the palms were black with soot. She pressed one hand
between your breasts and placed the other over my eyes so that I was
looking at you as through torn lace. You were naked under an unbuttoned coat. That single moment revealed your life to me in its
entirety: you were a plant, swelling and budding. Two stems rising
from the ground grew together and from that juncture you began to
wilt. But your body was already taking shape, with a belly, two
breasts and a head where two entrancing pink weals swell up. At that
moment though, the lower part of your body began to wither and collapsed. And I groveled before you, grunting with love such as I had
never known. I do not know whose shadow it was. I called it Emilie.
We are bound together forever, irrevocably, but we are back to back.
This woman is my coffin and, as she walks, I am hidden in her
image. And, so as I curse her, I damn myself and yet love her, falling
asleep with a cast of her hand on my cock.
On the first of May, you’ll go to the cemetery and, there in Section
Ten, you’ll find a woman sitting on a gravestone. She will be waiting
for you to tell your fortune from the cards. You will leave her and look
for explanations on the walls of boardinghouses for young ladies. But
the girls’ faces in the windows will turn into budding buttocks and
tulip arses and will quiver as a lorry drives past. You will be crazed
with fear that they’re going to fall down into the street—fear that is
close to the pleasure you felt at your first boyish erection and close to
the terror you felt when your sister taught you to masturbate with a
hand of alabaster.
Who do you think can console you now? Emilie is fragmented,
torn scraps of her likeness have been borne away by the wind to
places beyond your knowledge, and that is why you cannot call on
her to be the medium of your calming. And anyway you have long
ago learned not to mourn moments of farewell.
The sky slumbers and somewhere behind the bushes a woman
molded of raw flesh is waiting for you. Will you feed her on ice?
Clara always sat on the couch, wearing little and expecting to be
undressed. One day she took my revolver from a drawer, took aim,
and fired at a picture. The cardinal’s hand went to his chest and he
fell to the ground. I felt sorry for him and later on, whenever I visited
brothels on the outskirts of the city and paid the whores for their
skills, I was always aware that I was purchasing a moment of eternity. Any man who once tasted the salt of Cecilia’s cunt would sell his
rings, his friends, his morals and all the rest just to feed the insatiable
monster hidden beneath her pink skirt. Oh, why do we never distinguish the first moments when women treat us as playthings from the
time when we drive them to despair? I woke up one night in the early
hours, at the time flowers drop their petals and birds begin to sing.
Martha was lying by my side, a treasure house of all ways of making
love, a hyena of Corinth, lying with her cunt spread open to the dawn.
She caught the disgust in my eyes and surely wanted nothing better
that to see me nauseated by the filth of her. I watched her sex
swelling and pouring out of her cunt, over the bed and on to the
floor, filling the room like a stream of lava. I got out of bed and fled
madly from the house, not stopping until I reached the middle of the
deserted town square. As I looked back, I saw Martha’s sex squeezing out of the window like a monstrous tear of unnatural color. A
bird flew down to peck at my seed and I threw a stone to drive it
away. “You will be lucky, you will repeat yourself over and over
again,” a passer-by spoke to me and added, “your wife is just giving
birth to a son.”
Two little sparrows kept rendezvous every noon behind the pale
blue corsage of Our Lady of Lourdes. I was innocent when I entered
the catacombs. The row of square boxes naturally aroused my
curiosity. There were a few boys hanging by their bound feet from
the tops of the olive trees, flames roasting their curly young heads. In
the next room, I found a bunch of lovely naked girls entwined in a
single monstrous living creature like something from the
Apocalypse. Their cunts were opening and closing mechanically,
some empty, some swallowing their own slime. One in particular
caught my eye, the lips moving as though trying to speak, or like a
man whose tongue has turned to stone trying to crow like a cock.
Another was a smiling rosebud that I’d recognize to this day among
a hundred specimens. It was my dead Clara’s cunt, dead and buried,
with nobody to wash her body with the mint-scented lotion she loved.
Sadly, I brought out my cock and stuck it aimlessly into the writhing
mass, uncaring and indifferent, telling myself death always brings
debauchery and misfortune together.
Then I put an aquarium on my window sill. I had a golden-haired
vulva in it and a magnificent specimen of a penis with a blue eye and
delicate veins on its temples. As time went on, I threw everything I
had ever loved into it: broken cups, hairpins, Barbara’s slippers,
burnt-out bulbs, shadows, cigarette butts, sardine tins, all my letters
and used condoms. Many strange creatures were born in that world.
I felt myself to be a Creator and I had every right to think so. When I
had the aquarium sealed up, I gazed contentedly at my moldering
dreams until there was no seeing through the mildew on the glass. Yet
I was sure that everything I loved in the world was there inside.
I still need fodder for my eyes. They gulp down all they get,
greedily and roughly. At night, asleep, they digest it. Emilie scattered
her shocked scorn generously, arousing desire in all she met, provoking visions of that hairy maw.
I still remember something that happened when I was a boy. I’d
just been expelled from high school and nobody would have anything to do with me. Except my sister. I would go to her secretly in
the night. Lying in each other’s arms, legs entwined, we slowly
dreamed ourselves into the dulled state of all those who lie on the
knife-edge of shame. One night we heard soft footsteps and my sister
nudged me to hide behind the armchair. Our father came into the
room, shutting the door quietly behind him, and climbed into her bed
without a word. That was when, at last, I saw how one makes love.
Emilie’s beauty was not meant to fade, but to rot.
Transl. by Iris Irwin
Those who conceal their sexuality despise their innate abilities
without ever having risen above them. Though they reject human
mortality, they are incapable of liberating themselves from the
lugubrious cycle of life - made possible and guaranteed by the
genitals - to achieve the immortality of the mythical gods. And
though they have created the illusion of their own immortality,
thereby ridding their behavior and even their psyche of any
sexual character, they will never eliminate the corporeal proof
of their animality. The body will continue to demonstrate
mortality as the fate of all humans. It is for this reason that
any reference to human animality so gravely affects those who
dream of its antithesis. They take offense not only at any
mention of animality in life, but in science, literature, and
the arts as well, as this would disturb their reveries by
undermining their rationalist airs and social pretensions. By
imposing acts both excremental and sexual on their perception,
their superhuman fantasies are destroyed, laying bare the vanity
of their efforts to free themselves from the power of nature,
which has, in assuming mortality, equipped them with a sex and
an irrepressible need to satisfy its hunger.
There is nothing as intensely dispiriting for those who have
sublimated the substance of the body than their animality
spontaneously making its presence felt. Just consider how the
signs of uncontrollable shits deject the hero during a triumphal
campaign, or how painfully the nabobs bear their sexual
appetites towards their despised inferiors. Nothing but the
body pulls these haughty folk back to animality, disillusioning
their superhuman self-confidence. The bodily processes they are
unable to shake free of have become their Achilles heel, whose
sensitivity has been superbly exposed by pornophiles.
The nature of pornophilia is at heart militant and sadistic.
Through their activities pornophiles attack any mode of
non-animality used by people to elevate themselves over
pornophiles. In pointing to human nature, they sweep away all
pretensions of human inequality while at the same time
proceeding from a new criterion: the creation of new castes
distinguished not by social standing but by vital potency.
Pornophilia thus collapses the illusions the exalted harbor of
their divine nature while exposing their physical decrepitude,
the inferiority that they have brought upon themselves through
their contempt for the body. The body is the last argument of
those who have been unjustly neglected and ignored; it
demonstrates beyond debate the groundlessness of all social
distinctions in comparison to the might of nature. With the body
pornophiles not only abolish social barriers, through the vigor
of the non-incapacitated body they also elevate themselves above
those who scorn them in return. From this perspective
pornophilia could, above all, serve as a potent weapon for the
socially weak, the materially and culturally oppressed, who
might, in this context at least, assert their strength and
significance through the potency of their undegenerate body. It
is therefore understandable that those who succumb to
pornophilia are of a more revolutionary bent than those mired in
the prejudices of the moribund bourgeoisie.
Pornophiles use sadistic methods to attack the inflated psyches
of the ruling peacocks. Finding their dreams frustrated, those
thus attacked counter in like manner with a sadistically
motivated prudishness, a puritanical persecution of the
"depraved". One can discover for oneself the reason for the
emergence of pornophilia: When in the company of these flatulent
snobs one will have the overwhelming urge to disrupt their
prevailing idiotic idyll by roaring "shit, piss, fuck" and so
forth.
The primal reason for employing obscenity cannot be disguised
even in the primitive expression of those barbarians who to this
day draw the familiar diamond-shaped pattern and phallus on the
walls of a metropolis. If the sadistic impulse of their displays
is not directed at the socially conceited, it is aimed at women,
at their inferior, memberless sexual organ, threatened with
punishment by the penises represented in colossal drawings and
sculptures. Present-day pornophilia - whose psychological value
lies in the manifestation of obscene works and expression, not
in their anxious concealment - has, however, become a weapon
even against those of the same sex, unjustifiably inflated
though they might be. In other words, it tends towards
misanthropy rather than misogyny.
Inasmuch as the biological consequences of one´s sex ultimately
adversely affects pornophiles as well - as even they, too,
prefer to deny their mortality - the predilection towards
pornophilia assumes a particular characteristic that camouflages
the general unpleasantness of being reminded of one´s animality.
In this specific context, a work of obscenity may serve as a
surrogate to sexual gratification, as a direct sexual charge. If
of an artistic nature, it retains its militancy, albeit in an
especial sense. The sadistic character of pornophilic works,
particularly those that are works of art, is of course usually
latent, hidden in the authors subconscious, without it ever
reaching the level of consciousness proper; a similar meaning is
apparent in the vehement aversion puritans show towards it. The
true motives for their actions are as unknown to pornophiles as
they are to puritans, and they are therefore erroneously
interpreted. The sadism evident in pornophilic works naturally
should not in any way impact on its aesthetic evaluation, and as
a drive it isn´t any more peverse than the impetus to reproduce
the obligatory genres.
In pornophilic works of art the sex is liberated from its
biological function. Interpreted purely in terms of pleasure
without its reproductive consequences, sex does not attack the
animality of the conceited per se but the relative inferiority
of their animality. The artist does not provoke the puritan for
his transience, his mortality, which the artist suffers as well,
but for his impotence, his sexual inadequacy, which he has
brought on himself by leaving his sexus to degenerate through a
foolish desire for superhumanness. By excluding the biological
aspects of sex and excrementation from its content, pornophilic
art does not conceal the sadistic nature of its unpretentious
obscenity; rather, it merely curtails the manner in which its
militancy is projected. In pornophilically motivated art,
therefore, the conceited are being combatted through sex´s
pleasure principle instead of through its biological purpose- in
other words, what this art primarily attacks is imperfect
humanity, not the imperfect divinity of the conceited. One could
ridicule the desire for immortality for its baneful consequences
alone, i.e., sexual degeneracy. Thus art mitigates the sadism of
pornophilia only in its exploitation of sex´s biological
function, which is as unpleaant to pornophiles as it is to
pornophobes.
Yet pornophilic tendencies are found even in those who are
targeted; they are particularly fond of it as kitsch, the
purpose of which is sexual titillation. This mode of trash
pornophilia completely suppresses the sadistic impulses found in
pornophilic art. As a result pornophilia is rendered accessible
precisely to that caste of people against whom it is essentially
directed. Pornophilia has a corrupting influence solely on those
puritans who persecute its militancy and sadism; they have
imputed to it the same meaning as their pornographic literature
and pictures carefully hidden away in closed drawers until
required for that occasional arousal (which as a rule their
shabby wives can no longer produce). The only thing this sort of
trash pornophilia does not need is a public, in fact, it resists
one as any number of people, and not only puritans, find it
difficult to reach orgasm in the presence of others.
Divesting ourselves of all prejudices, we should evaluate
pornophilic works strictly on their artistic value. If anyone
should think that obscene content in itself detracts from the
value of a work of art, then we might just as well reject
Strindberg´s or Tolstoy´s art for its misogyny. Pornophilia
cannot be reproached for being pathological as it is a disease
of a similar order to any other manifestation of culture, no
different even than the sadistic puritanism of its opponents. If
pornophilia can be considered a work of art, it is as much a
cultural phenomenon as "humanitarian" art, and if it limits
itself purely to expressing the libido without any connection to
other cultural or economic values, then it is no more neurotic
than the trite expressions of compassion; its pathological
manifestations in erotomania and coprophilia are similar to the
anthropophilia evident in the masochism of martyrs. Our
humanity, culture, and civilization are nothing more than a
useful way to utilize neurotic conflicts. So until our
pathologies give rise to works of value we simply cannot be
taken to task for having this nature. The sublimation of the
neurotic libido is creative, while the normal libido leads only
to playfulness. Both libidos, therefore, participate in the
creative process that is motivated by obscenity. The neurotic
libido determines the work´s content while the normal libido
gives it its mode or form. If the normal libido looks for a
surrogate to instant gratification, it will use obscenity to
create kitsch, but if its demands are sublimated, then the
result is art.
The titillating, kitchified mode of pornophilic themes has no
other value and function than that of artificial dolls designed
for onanism (ipsatio). Such works are limited to the sexual act
in and of itself and are incapable of disengaging from the
atmosphere of the recess without ceasing to perform their
function, which is founded on the illusion of a real partner and
coitus. On the other hand, the artist whose work is not bound to
reality sees no need to have naked girls urinate into a chamber
pot when he could offer them an alpine valley instead. An
ejaculation need not become a yellow stain on the bedding - it
can be transformed into a bolt of lightning and used to cleave a
Gothic cathedral. A lovers´ bed can be replaced by the cosmos
and the globe inserted under a woman´s buttocks. And from her
pudenda the artist then has a sun emerging, the most marvelous
of miscarriages.
The artist not bound by the rational coordination of
perceptions, actual proportionality and syntax releases the
sexual organ from its biological function of procreation, which
is perhaps too painfully evoked by pornographic kitsch when its
titillating function ceases through the orgasm it has produced.
Artistic pornophilia can never be glossed by irony and cynicism
as real or reproductive sexuality stuck to the bed sheets.
While a different world might have long ago achieved a
transvaluation of art, the elaboration of sexuality has been
impeded by the censorship of puritans who are incensed by
obscene content insofar as it portrays healthy sex, whereas
their sexuality is pitifully derelict under their flies. They
are aware, even if unconsciously, of their sexual inferiority,
and as their rumps are deformed by hemorrhoids as well, they
envy the formidable penises and clean backsides of others. What
galls them to a far greater extent than pornophilic kitsch are
works of art of obscene content, for here the artist has
extended the reign of his sexuality over the entire world.
Pornophilic kitsch keeps to the recess. The artist, on the other
hand, has expanded throughout the world. He pisses a sea, shits
a Himalayas, gives birth to cities, masturbates factory
chimneys, etc. Nothing is sacred to him, and the associations he
makes are, above all, sexual.
His pansexuality carries a double meaning: the first attacks
puritan impotence and the second frees sex from its procreative
function. Here sex is comprehended in a purely aesthetic sense,
voluptuously. The artist´s pleasure, facilitated by the libido,
is not dampened by common veracity. The erotic scenes thus
created do not stand or fall through an oppressive banality,
although the banality and insipidness of sexual gratification
cannot be eliminated by perverse infatuations. These, too, are
dull and banal. The libido needs a space to play in, a space
that diverts the senses from the dismal postcoital condition and
deters those rational speculations poisoning one´s pleasure. Our
eroticism must be rid of its depressing connection to plump
wives and conjugal beds under which a chamber pot is lurking.
Nevertheless, as poetry is the art of finding the exotic in the
mundane, there is no need to discard our inventory of the banal,
only banal situations. This can be achieved only through a
subjective evaluation of things and actions, liberating them
from their customary sequencing. Poetry negates reality´s
biological and economic meaning; annulling its rationalist
context, it creates a new syntax that gives the old content new
meaning, a new narrative. In this way the vapid, the graceless,
becomes the exceptional, the emotive. Poetry is the art of
discovering mundane life´s emotive perspective. The art of
living is the art of where and when to have a cup of black
coffee, or in the sexual arts, where and when to have an orgasm.
If puritans would like to call this a disease, then we shall
help them. It is simply a matter of being partial to situations.
From the world of dreams and hallucinations the modern artist
enters the world of the most demented lunatics who are exhausted
by the wayward adventure into which their reason has led them.
Having renounced his reason, the artist is satisfied with the
adventure that has freed his libido by liberating his senses.
The adventure of reason, of rationality, is pathologically
closed off by a psychosis that negates the intellect and by an
autism that exempts one from rationally evaluating one´s
intuitions and behavior. The freed libido may autonomously
reveal itself during this pathological state. Psychosis puts an
end to the ravages of neurosis through negation, by gradually
inhibiting menial and bodily functions. If psychosis is limited
only to the negation of reason and does not inhibit perception,
movement, and so on, then the natural channels for our
emotional, aesthetic, and irrational actions and perceptions
will eventually surface.
The world the mad have entered through a numbness of mind the
artist has attained through a soundness of mind, and has thereby
adopted a natural, purely hedonistic stance towards the real
possibilities of what might be utilized for his art. If ancient
art is analogous to neurosis, then modern art is analogous to
the creations of psychosis. The artist of today has emerged
from the world of dreams, hallucinations, alcoholic deliriums,
and violent, sweat-soaked, symbolic phantasms to a valuation
that is unaffected and purely emotive, and a perception of the
real that spontaneously creates phantasms of the kind ancient
art could scarcely imagine. Modern poetry has magically fanned
out over all landscapes like the dreamlike atmosphere of an
atelier. It has enabled the artist to disregard the
socio-economic values of life in favor of a thought and
perception that are solely focused on pleasure. The liberated
senses and psyche are thus able to see the entire world in its
full emotive nature, evanescent though this might be.
Pornophilia as a work of art offers the pleasures of life far
removed from pedestrian concerns. Having prudently rid our
animality of its bleak vision, the artist emancipates the acts
of the body from their biological purpose, leading us to revel
in delight in a manner that is only allowed us by nature.
Asceticism, any sort of renunciation of our sexuality, is
indefensible. As each person comes into the world at the end of
an umbilical cord only inevitably to become dust, we should take
pleasure from everything our abilities allow us.
Bohuslav Brouk
transl. by Jed Slast
