Work in Progress "à la manière d'une petite madeleine de Proust" - A Mental Playground of my own


Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo.

Gabogabogabogabogaboagoabgoabgoabgoabgaob. G.a.b.o.

New Great Music To Listen To: London Grammar
There is the depth of a back-street corridor in this voice & the flicker on wet cobblestones here & there..

Sfilata di moda ecclesiastica
(Love the “Tourterelles immaculées”)

Lo. Lee. Ta.

Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travelers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as “nymphets.”

It will be marked that I substitute time terms for spatial ones. In fact, I would have the reader see “nine” and “fourteen” as the boundaries — the mirrory beaches and rosy rocks — of an enchanted island haunted by those nymphets of mine and surrounded by a vast, misty sea. Between those age limits, are all girl-children nymphets? Of course not. Otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone voyagers, we nympholepts, would have long gone insane. Neither are good looks any criterion; and vulgarity, or at least what a given community terms so, does not necessarily impair certain mysterious characteristics, the fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soul-shattering, insidious charm that separates the nymphet from such coevals of hers as are incomparably more dependent on the spatial world of synchronous phenomena than on that intangible island of entranced time where Lolita plays with her likes. Within the same age limits the number of true nymphets is trickingly inferior to that of provisionally plain, or just nice, or “cute,” or even “sweet” and “attractive,” ordinary, plumpish, formless, cold-skinned, essentially human little girls, with tummies and pigtails, who may or may not turn into adults of great beauty (look at the ugly dumplings in black stockings and white hats that are metamorphosed into stunning stars of the screen). A normal man given a group photograph of school girls or Girl Scouts and asked to point out the comeliest one will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs — the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate — the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

Furthermore, since the idea of time plays such a magic part in the matter, the student should not be surprised to learn that there must be a gap of several years, never less than ten I should say, generally thirty or forty, and as many as ninety in a few known cases, between maiden and man to enable the latter to come under a nymphet’s spell. It is a question of focal adjustment, of a certain distance that the inner eye thrills to surmount, and a certain contrast that the mind perceives with a gasp of perverse delight. When I was a child and she was a child, my little Annabel was no nymphet to me; I was her equal, a faunlet in my own right, on that same enchanted island of time; but today, in September 1952, after twenty-nine years have elapsed, I think I can distinguish in her the initial fateful elf in my life. We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives. I was a strong lad and survived; but the poison was in the wound, and the wound remained ever open, and soon I found myself maturing amid a civilization which allows a man of twenty-five to court a girl of sixteen but not a girl of twelve.

Une petite pensée pour toutes ces choses ridicules que j’ai faites - ou commises, je ne sais pas très bien - ici ou là, & qui me font bien rire maintenant ; mais je n’ai pas assez de courage ou de volonté pour soulever le rasoir d’Occam & le laisser trancher les os surnuméraires.

Lettre XLVIII - Le vicomte de Valmont à la présidente de Tourvel

"C’est après une nuit orageuse, et pendant laquelle je n’ai pas fermé l’oeil ; c’est après avoir été sans cesse ou dans l’agitation d’une ardeur dévorante, ou dans l’entier anéantissement de toutes les facultés de mon âme, que je viens chercher auprès de vous, Madame, un calme dont j’ai besoin, et dont pourtant je n’espère pas jouir encore. En effet, la situation où je suis en vous écrivant me fait connaître plus que jamais la puissance irrésistible de l’amour ; j’ai peine à conserver assez d’empire sur moi pour mettre quelque ordre dans mes idées ; et déjà je prévois que je ne finirai pas cette Lettre sans être obligé de l’interrompre. Quoi ! ne puis-je donc espérer que vous partagerez quelque jour le trouble que j’éprouve en ce moment ? J’ose croire cependant que, si vous le connaissiez bien, vous n’y seriez pas entièrement insensible."

Malkovitch’s mischievous grin & Close’s brilliantly controlled smile

Listening to this & lying in bed - Singing on my piano this nugget of wonderfulness & golden greatest - la crème de la crème..

Marco teórico a manejar: el cecso como pérdida progresiva de virginidades.

"Las virginidades y los puntos" in Joven & Alocada

Cock music

Y a quelque chose de magnifique dans son histoire. De savoir que si tout foire il nous en reste dans les tiroirs. Grâce à eux, eux qui ont reçu le feu sacré qui permet de tout voir. Eux, les machine à observer, les machines à mettre des mots sur tout. Eux, qui écrivent plus vite que la pensée. Et avec ça, ils agrandissent la vie. Ils font apparaître les fils qui relient toutes les choses entre elles. Et ça leur donne le courage de tout affronter, même la Kolyma. En attendant moi… En attendant moi quoi !? Moi j’ai rien vu, rien lu, rien entendu et surtout rien compris. Mais c’est pas grave je t’attend tant pis.