Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 148 of 344 · 20 per page

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  girl—yet when Gillot admitted to himself that he was in love with her, and boy were no longer two, but proposed marriage, Salomé was horrified. The confused pastor never quite a single form, possessed of got over Lou von Salomé, becoming the first of a long string of famous a dual nature, which could men to be the victim of a lifelong unfulfilled infatuation with her. not be called male or female, but seemed to be at In 1882, the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche was wandering once both and neither. around Italy alone. In Genoa he received a letter from his friend Paul Rée, —OVID, METAMORPHOSES, a Prussian philosopher whom he admired, recounting his discussions with a TRANSLATED BY MARY M. INNES remarkable young Russian woman, Lou von Salomé, in Rome. Salomé was 46 • The Art of Seduction Dandyism is not even, as there on holiday with her mother; Rée had managed to accompany her on many unthinking people long walks through the city, unchaperoned, and they had had many conver-seem to suppose, an sations. Her ideas on God and Christianity were quite similar to Nietz-immoderate interest in personal appearance and sche's, and when Rée had told her that the famous philosopher was a friend material elegance. For the of his, she had insisted that he invite Nietzsche to join them. In subsequent true dandy these things are letters Ree described how mysteriously captivating Salomé was, and how only a symbol oj the aristocratic superiority of his anxious she was to meet Nietzsche. The philosopher soon went to Rome. personality. . . . • What, When Nietzsche finally met Salomé, he was overwhelmed. She had the then, is this ruling passion most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and during their first long talk those that has turned into a creed and created its own skilled eyes lit up so intensely that he could not help feeling there was something tyrants? What is this erotic about her excitement. Yet he was also confused: Salomé kept her dis-unwritten constitution that tance, and did not respond to his compliments. What a devilish young has created so haughty a woman. A few days later she read him a poem of hers, and he cried; her caste? It is, above all, a burning need to acquire ideas about life were so like his own. Deciding to seize the moment, Nietz-originality, within the sche proposed marriage. (He did not know that Ree had done so as well.) apparent bounds of Salomé declined. She was interested in philosophy, life, adventure, not mar-convention. It is a sort of cult of oneself, which can riage. Undaunted, Nietzsche continued to court her. On an excursion to dispense even with what are Lake Orta with Rée, Salomé, and her mother, he managed to get the girl commonly called illusions. It alone, accompanying her on a walk up Monte Sacro while the others stayed is the delight in causing

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The real world can be unforgiving: events occur over which we have little control, other people ignore our feelings in their quests to get what they need, time runs out before we accomplish what we had wanted. If we ever stopped to look at the present and future in a completely objective way, we would despair. Fortunately we develop the habit of dreaming early on. In this other, mental world that we inhabit, the future is full of rosy possibilities. Perhaps tomorrow we will sell that brilliant idea, or meet the person who will change our lives. Our culture stimulates these fantasies with constant images and stories of marvelous occurrences and happy romances. The problem is, these images and fantasies exist only in our minds, or on-screen. They really aren't enough—we crave the real thing, not this endless daydreaming and titillation. Your task as a seducer is to bring some flesh and blood into someone's fantasy life by embodying a fantasy figure, or creating a scenario resembling that person's dreams. No one can resist the pull of a secret desire that has come to life before their eyes. You must first choose targets who have some repression or dream unrealized—always the most likely victims of a seduction. Slowly and gradually, you will build up the illusion that they are getting to see and feel and live those dreams of theirs. Once they have this sensation they will lose contact with reality, and begin to see your fantasy as more real than anything else. And once they 304 • The Art of Seduction lose touch with reality, they are (to quote Stendhal on Lord Byron's female victims) like roasted larks that fall into your mouth.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Seduction, like warfare, is often a game of distance and closeness. At first you track your enemy from a distance. Your main weapons are your eyes, and a mysterious manner. Byron had his famous underlook, Madame Mao her yearning eyes. The key is to make the look short and to the point, then look away, like a rapier glancing the flesh. Make your eyes reveal desire, and keep the rest of the face still. (A smile will spoil the effect.) Once the victim is heated up, you quickly bridge the distance, turning to hand-to-hand combat in which you give the enemy no room to withdraw, no time to think or to consider the position in which you have placed him or her. To take the element of fear out of this, use flattery, make the target feel more masculine or feminine, praise their charms. It is their fault that you have become so physical and aggressive. There is no greater physical lure than to make the target feel alluring. Remember: the girdle of Aphrodite, which gave her untold seductive powers, included that of sweet flattery. Shared physical activity is always an excellent lure. The Russian mystic Rasputin would begin his seductions with a spiritual lure—the promise of a shared religious experience. But then his eyes would bore into his target at a party, and inevitably he would lead her in a dance, which would become more and more suggestive as he moved closer to her. Hundreds of women succumbed to this technique. For Flynn it was swimming or sailing. In such physical activity, the mind turns off and the body operates according to its own laws. The target's body will follow your lead, will mirror your moves, as far as you want it to go. In the moment, all moral considerations fade away, and the body re- 404 • The Art of Seduction turns to a state of innocence. You can partly create that feeling through a devil-may-care attitude. You do not worry about the world, or what people think of you; you do not judge your target in any way. Part of Flynn's appeal was his total acceptance of a woman. He was not interested in a particular body type, a woman's race, her level of education, her political beliefs. He was in love with her feminine presence. He was luring her into an adventure, free of society's strictures and moral judgments. With him she could act out a fantasy—which, for many, was the chance to be aggressive or transgressive, to experience danger. So empty yourself of your tendency to moralize and judge. You have lured your targets into a momentary world of pleasure—soft and accommodating, all rules and taboos thrown out the window.

• From Querelle (1953)

  But when he was by himself, at night or during the day, opening or buttoning his fly, his fingers felt they were capturing, with the greatest care, the treasure-the very soul-of this giant prick; he imagined that his own virility emanated from the stone phallus, while feeling quietly humble in the presence of the unruffled and incomparable power of that unimaginably huge male. And now Querelle knew he would be able to deliver his burden of opium to that strange ogre with the two magnifi· cent bodies . .. Just need to get another guy to help. Can't do it without him." Querelle understood, though hazily, that the entire success of the venture depended on this one sailor, and (even more vaguely, in the peace of mind afforded by this very remote and sweet idea, yet as insubstantial as the dawn ) , in fact, on Vic- 41 I QUERELLE whom he would enroll for the job, and it would be through him that he would be able to reach Mario and Norbert. Now the boss seemed straight; the other one was too handsome to be a mere cop. Those rings were too nice for that. "And what about me? And my jewels? If only that sonofabitch could see theml" Querelle was referring to the treasure hidden away in the despatch-boat, but also to his balls, full and heavy, which he stroked every night, and kept safely tucked away between his hands while he slept. He thought of the stolen watch. He smiled : that was the old Querelle, blooming, lighting up, showing the delicate underside of his petals.

• From Querelle (1953)

  "Not to me, and they haven't been to the house either. But I must take care not to stay away too long." And suddenly Gil gave vent to a sigh, terminating in a wild groan : "Oh! Your sister, boy, could I use her now. She's beautiful, you know! Aarrghh . ." . "She looks a bit like me." Gil knew it. Not wanting to let Roger see that, and also with the intention of showing his superiority to the boy, he said : "A whole lot better, though. You're like an uglier version of her." 161 I QUERELLE Roger \�v·as glad that the darkness obscured his blush. Nevertheless he raised his face toward Gil's, smiling wistfully. "Didn't mean to say you was ugly, that ain't so. As a matter of fact, you do have the same little mug." He bent over the boy's face and took it in his hands : "God, if I could be holding her the way I'm holding you now. Boy, I'd be off to a flying start." Of its own accord, rising from the clamp of Gil's hands, the upturned face of the boy approached Gil's. \Vith a quiet murmuring sound Gil touched Roger's forehead. TI1en their noses met and played at Eskimo kisses for ten seconds or so. As he had suddenly rediscovered the brother's resemblance to his sister and felt the emotion rising in him, Gil was unable to dissimulate. In one breath, his mouth close to Roger's, he whispered : "It is a pity that you ain't your sister." Roger smiled : "Is that right?" Roger's voice sounded clear, pure, apparently unmoved. Having loved Gil for a long time and hoped for this moment, having prepared himself for it, he did not want to appear moved by anything beyond friendship. The same prudence that had enabled him to deceive the police officers by his limpid look now made him couch his reply to Gil in an impassive tone. Gil's avowal of his feelings, having occurred first, allowed the proud child to demonstrate his own cool. But it's also true that he did not yet know the conventional signals of amorous abanpon, didn't know that the voluptuous groans have to be willed a little : "By God, you're as nice to touch as a girl." Gil pressed his mouth on the boy's lips. Roger drew back, smiling. "Are you afraid?" "Oh, no!" "Well? What did you think I was going to do?" 162 I JEAN GENET Gil felt embarrassed by the misfired kiss. With ·a sneer in his voice, he said : "You don't feel too safe, hey, with a guy like me?" "Why shouldn't I? Sure I feel safe. I wouldn't come here, otherwise." "That's not what it looks like." Then, with an abrupt change to serious business, as if the idea to be expressed were so important as to make him brush all the previous nonsense aside :

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He got out first and helped her to get out. Before the servants he pressed her hand, took his seat in the carriage, and drove back to Petersburg. Immediately afterwards a footman came from Princess Betsy and brought Anna a note. “I sent to Alexey to find out how he is, and he writes me he is quite well and unhurt, but in despair.” “So _he_ will be here,” she thought. “What a good thing I told him all!” She glanced at her watch. She had still three hours to wait, and the memories of their last meeting set her blood in flame. “My God, how light it is! It’s dreadful, but I do love to see his face, and I do love this fantastic light.... My husband! Oh! yes.... Well, thank God! everything’s over with him.” Chapter 30 In the little German watering-place to which the Shtcherbatskys had betaken themselves, as in all places indeed where people are gathered together, the usual process, as it were, of the crystallization of society went on, assigning to each member of that society a definite and unalterable place. Just as the particle of water in frost, definitely and unalterably, takes the special form of the crystal of snow, so each new person that arrived at the springs was at once placed in his special place. _Fürst_ Shtcherbatsky, _sammt Gemahlin und Tochter_, by the apartments they took, and from their name and from the friends they made, were immediately crystallized into a definite place marked out for them.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The raging tempest rushed whistling between the wheels of the carriages, about the scaffolding, and round the corner of the station. The carriages, posts, people, everything that was to be seen was covered with snow on one side, and was getting more and more thickly covered. For a moment there would come a lull in the storm, but then it would swoop down again with such onslaughts that it seemed impossible to stand against it. Meanwhile men ran to and fro, talking merrily together, their steps crackling on the platform as they continually opened and closed the big doors. The bent shadow of a man glided by at her feet, and she heard sounds of a hammer upon iron. “Hand over that telegram!” came an angry voice out of the stormy darkness on the other side. “This way! No. 28!” several different voices shouted again, and muffled figures ran by covered with snow. Two gentlemen with lighted cigarettes passed by her. She drew one more deep breath of the fresh air, and had just put her hand out of her muff to take hold of the door post and get back into the carriage, when another man in a military overcoat, quite close beside her, stepped between her and the flickering light of the lamp post. She looked round, and the same instant recognized Vronsky’s face. Putting his hand to the peak of his cap, he bowed to her and asked, Was there anything she wanted? Could he be of any service to her? She gazed rather a long while at him without answering, and, in spite of the shadow in which he was standing, she saw, or fancied she saw, both the expression of his face and his eyes. It was again that expression of reverential ecstasy which had so worked upon her the day before. More than once she had told herself during the past few days, and again only a few moments before, that Vronsky was for her only one of the hundreds of young men, forever exactly the same, that are met everywhere, that she would never allow herself to bestow a thought upon him. But now at the first instant of meeting him, she was seized by a feeling of joyful pride. She had no need to ask why he had come. She knew as certainly as if he had told her that he was here to be where she was. “I didn’t know you were going. What are you coming for?” she said, letting fall the hand with which she had grasped the door post. And irrepressible delight and eagerness shone in her face. “What am I coming for?” he repeated, looking straight into her eyes. “You know that I have come to be where you are,” he said; “I can’t help it.”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  At that moment the wind, as it were, surmounting all obstacles, sent the snow flying from the carriage roofs, and clanked some sheet of iron it had torn off, while the hoarse whistle of the engine roared in front, plaintively and gloomily. All the awfulness of the storm seemed to her more splendid now. He had said what her soul longed to hear, though she feared it with her reason. She made no answer, and in her face he saw conflict. “Forgive me, if you dislike what I said,” he said humbly. He had spoken courteously, deferentially, yet so firmly, so stubbornly, that for a long while she could make no answer. “It’s wrong, what you say, and I beg you, if you’re a good man, to forget what you’ve said, as I forget it,” she said at last. “Not one word, not one gesture of yours shall I, could I, ever forget....” “Enough, enough!” she cried trying assiduously to give a stern expression to her face, into which he was gazing greedily. And clutching at the cold door post, she clambered up the steps and got rapidly into the corridor of the carriage. But in the little corridor she paused, going over in her imagination what had happened. Though she could not recall her own words or his, she realized instinctively that the momentary conversation had brought them fearfully closer; and she was panic-stricken and blissful at it. After standing still a few seconds, she went into the carriage and sat down in her place. The overstrained condition which had tormented her before did not only come back, but was intensified, and reached such a pitch that she was afraid every minute that something would snap within her from the excessive tension. She did not sleep all night. But in that nervous tension, and in the visions that filled her imagination, there was nothing disagreeable or gloomy: on the contrary there was something blissful, glowing, and exhilarating. Towards morning Anna sank into a doze, sitting in her place, and when she waked it was daylight and the train was near Petersburg. At once thoughts of home, of husband and of son, and the details of that day and the following came upon her.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Roger smiled, from ear to ear. He turned his radiant face toward Gil. "Aaahh ... " The sound was both gentle and hoarse, �eeming to originate in the pit of Girs stomach, nothing so much as an anguished sigh born at the base of his throbbing rod. He realized that there was a rapid, immediate line connecting the base of his prick to the back of his throat and to that muffied groan. We would like these reflections, these observations, which cannot fully round out nor delineate the characters of the book, to give you permission to act not so much as onlookers as creators of these very characters, who will then slowly disengage themselves from your own preoccupations. Little by little, Gil's prick was getting lively. In his pants pocket his hand had· hold of it, flattening it against his belly. Indeed, it had the stature of a tree, a mossy-baled oak with lamenting mandrakes being bo� among its roots. (Sometimes, when he woke up with a hard-on, Gil would address his prick as "my hanged man.'') They walked on, but at a slower pace. "She gives you the hots, eh?" The light of Roger's smile came close to illuminating the fog, making the stars sparkle through. It made him happy to hear, right there beside him, how Gil's amorous desire made his mouth water. "You think that's funny, don'cha.'' Teeth clenched, hands still in pockets, Gil turned to face the boy and forced him to retreat into a recess in· the stone wall. He kept pushing him with his belly, his chest. Roger kept on n 1 QUERELLE smiling, a little less radiantly perhaps, hardly shrinking back from the thrust of the other young man's face. Gil was now leaning against him with his entire vigorous body. "You think that's a scream, hey?" Gil took one of his hands out of his pocket. He put it on Roger's shoulder, so close to the collar that the thumb brushed against the cool skin of the kid's neck. His shoulders against the wall, Roger let himself slide down a little, as if wanting to appear smaller. He was still smiling. "So say something? You think it's funny? Eh?" Gil advanced like a conqueror, almost like a lover. His mouth was both cruel and soft, like those movie seducers' mouths under their thin black mustaches, and his expression turned suddenly so serious that Roger's smile, by a faint drooping of the comers of his mouth, now seemed a little. sad. With his back to the wall, Roger kept on sliding, holding that wistful smile with which he looked to be sinking, submerging in the monstrous wave that Gil was riding, one hand still in pocket, clutching that great spar. "Aaahh ... " Again, Gil voiced that groan, hoarse and remote, that we have had occasion to descnbe.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Though they were hardly aware of it as yet, this privacy instilled in them a hesitation, a little fearful, a little tremulous, a charming emotion akin to that in children when they walk along, hands in pockets, touching, stumbling over each other's feet. "Shit-watch your step! Keep going." "That must be the quay. Never mind 'em." "And why not? You got the jitters?" "N b o, t u t' some 1mes . . '"' . Now and again they sensed a woman walking by, saw the steady glow of a cigarette, guessed at the outline of a couple locked in an embrace. "Howzat . . . ? Sometimes what?" 19 I QUERELLE "Oh come on, Gil, no need to take it out on me. It ain't my fault my sister wasn't able to make it." And, a little quieter, after two more steps in silence: "You can't have been thinking too much about Paulette, last night, dancing with that brunette?" "What the fuck's that to you? Yeah, I danced with her. So what?" "Well! You weren't just dancing, you took her home, too." "So what, I'm not hitched to your sister, jack. Look who's talking. All I'm saying is, you could have made sure .that she came along." Gil was speaking quite loudly, but none too distinctly, so as to be understood only by Roger. Then he lowered his voice, and a note of anxiety crept into it. "So, what about it?" "Gil, you know it, I just couldn't swing it for you. I swear." They turned to the left, in the direction of the Navy warehouses. A second time they bumped into one another. Automatically, Gil put his hand on the boy's shoulder. It remained there. Roger slackened his pace, hoping that his buddy would stop. Would it_ happen? He was almost melting, feeling infinitely tender; but at that moment someone passed by-he and Gilbert were not in a place of perfect solitude. Gil let go of his shoulder and put his hand back into his pocket, and Roger thought that he had been rejected. Yet, when he took his hand away, Gil couldn't help bearing down a little harder, just as he let go, as if some kind of regret at taking it away had added to its weight. And now Gil had a hard-on. "Shit." H� tried to visualize a sharp image of Paulette's face, and was immediately tempted by his erratic mind to concentrate on another point, on what Roger's sister had under her skirt, between her thighs. Needing an easily, immediately accessible physical prop, he said to himself, thinking in the inflections of cyniCISm: 20 I JEAN GENET "Well, here's her brother, right beside me, in the fogl" It was then that it seemed to him it would be a delight to enter that warmth, that black, fur-fringed, slightly pursed hole that emits such vague, yet ponderous and fiery odors, even in corpses already cold. "She gives me the hots, your sister, you know."

• From Querelle (1953)

  I've been around, you don't have to pretend with me. Your brother, now, that's a different story. He's into the girls, he 201 I JEAN GENET doesn't put up with the other stuff. You see I know the scene. But let's not talk about it any more." They had arrived almost at the level of the fortifications, without meeting anybody on their way. Querelle stopped. With the hand holding , the cigarette he touched the detective's shoulder: "Mario." Staring into his eyes, Querelle went on, in a serious tone : "I've lain with Nona, I won't deny that. I just don't want you to get any wrong ideas. I'm not a faggot. I like girls. D'you understand what I'm saying?" "I've got nothing to argue with that. But Nona, or so he says, Nona screwed you in the ass. You can't deny that." "All right, so �e buggered me, but . . . " "But it ain't worth wasting your breath about it. I can figure things out for myself. You don't have to go on and on telling me what an hombre you are. I know that for a fact. If you were some mincing faggot, you would've lost your nerve when we had that fight. But you're not the kind of guy who loses his nerve." He put his hand on Querelle's shoulder and gave him a little shove to start walking again. He was smiling, and so was Querelle. "Listen man, we're old enough to talk. You had your scene with Nona, and that's no crime. The main thing, the way I see it, is that you had a good time, too. Don't tell me you didn't." Querelle wanted to go on defending himself, but his smile · betrayed him. "Sure, I came. But I don't think there's a guy in the world who wouldn't have.'' "See, that's it. You had a good time, and no harm done. I bet Nona spunked like a walrus, too-he's such a hot-blooded guy, and you're damn good-looking." "Nothing special about my looks." 203 I QUE.RELLE "Oh, come on, you and your brother . I beg your pardon! . . But Nona, is he a good lover?" "Come on, �1ario, let's change the subject . . . " But he said that with a smile. The detective kept his hand on Querelle's shoulder, as if leading him to the gallows, gently but irresistibly. "But why not tell me? Or isn't he too good at it?" "\Vhy d'you ask me? Is this how you get your kicks? Or are you planning on trying it yourself?" "And why shouldn't I, if it's good fun? Come on, tell me. How does he go about it?" ''He's pretty good at it. So there. Come on, Mario, you're not trying to get a rise out of me, are you?" "Hell no, we're just talking. Ain't no one here to listen. Did it feel good, to you?" "\Vhy don't you try it!"

• From Querelle (1953)

  88 I JEAN GENET He despised the officer. He kept on smiling, allowing himself to be lulled by the monstrous and ill-defined notion of "faggot" sweeping back and forth inside his head. · "Faggot, what's a faggot? One who lets other guys screw him in the ass?" he thought. And gradually, while his smile faded, lines of disdain appeared at the comers of his mouth. Then again, another phrase drifted through his mind, inducing a vague feeling of torpor: "Me, I'm one too." A thought he had difficulty in focusing on, though he did not find it repulsive, but of whose sadness he was aware when he realized that he \vas pulling his buttocks in so tight (or so it seemed to him) that they no longer touched the seat of his trousers. And this fleet ing, yet quite depressing thought generated, up his spine, an immediate and rapid series of vibrations which quickly spread out over the entire surface· of his black shoulders and covered them with a shawl woven out of shivers. Querelle raised his arm, to smooth back his hair. The gesture was so beautiful, unveiling, as it did, the armpit as pale and as taut as a trout's belly, that the Lieutenant could not prevent his eyes from betraying how very weary he was of this state of unrequited passion. His eyes cried for mercy. Their expression made him look more humble, even, than if he had fallen on his knees. Querelle felt ve·ry strong. If he despised the Lieutenant, he felt no impulse to laugh ·at him, as on other days. It seemed un necessary to him to exert his charms, as he had an inkling that his hue power was of another kind. It rose from the depths of hell, yet from a certain region in hell where the bodies and the faces are beautiful. Querelle felt the coal dust on his body, as women feel, on their anns and hips, the folds of a material that transforms them into queens. It was a make-up that did not interfere with his nakedness, that turned him into a god. But for the moment he was content to merely tum on his smile again. He was sure, now, that the Lieutenant would never ever raise the matter of the watch. "So what are you going to do now?"

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Anna had at first avoided as far as she could Princess Tverskaya’s world, because it necessitated an expenditure beyond her means, and besides in her heart she preferred the first circle. But since her visit to Moscow she had done quite the contrary. She avoided her serious-minded friends, and went out into the fashionable world. There she met Vronsky, and experienced an agitating joy at those meetings. She met Vronsky specially often at Betsy’s for Betsy was a Vronsky by birth and his cousin. Vronsky was everywhere where he had any chance of meeting Anna, and speaking to her, when he could, of his love. She gave him no encouragement, but every time she met him there surged up in her heart that same feeling of quickened life that had come upon her that day in the railway carriage when she saw him for the first time. She was conscious herself that her delight sparkled in her eyes and curved her lips into a smile, and she could not quench the expression of this delight. At first Anna sincerely believed that she was displeased with him for daring to pursue her. Soon after her return from Moscow, on arriving at a _soirée_ where she had expected to meet him, and not finding him there, she realized distinctly from the rush of disappointment that she had been deceiving herself, and that this pursuit was not merely not distasteful to her, but that it made the whole interest of her life. The celebrated singer was singing for the second time, and all the fashionable world was in the theater. Vronsky, seeing his cousin from his stall in the front row, did not wait till the _entr’acte_, but went to her box. “Why didn’t you come to dinner?” she said to him. “I marvel at the second sight of lovers,” she added with a smile, so that no one but he could hear; “_she wasn’t there_. But come after the opera.” Vronsky looked inquiringly at her. She nodded. He thanked her by a smile, and sat down beside her. “But how I remember your jeers!” continued Princess Betsy, who took a peculiar pleasure in following up this passion to a successful issue. “What’s become of all that? You’re caught, my dear boy.” “That’s my one desire, to be caught,” answered Vronsky, with his serene, good-humored smile. “If I complain of anything it’s only that I’m not caught enough, to tell the truth. I begin to lose hope.” “Why, whatever hope can you have?” said Betsy, offended on behalf of her friend. “_Entendons nous...._” But in her eyes there were gleams of light that betrayed that she understood perfectly and precisely as he did what hope he might have. “None whatever,” said Vronsky, laughing and showing his even rows of teeth. “Excuse me,” he added, taking an opera-glass out of her hand, and proceeding to scrutinize, over her bare shoulder, the row of boxes facing them. “I’m afraid I’m becoming ridiculous.”

• From Querelle (1953)

  luxury of a bounty of boobs and milky thighs under clinging black satin, bursting with bosoms, crystals, mirrors, scents, and champagne, the sailor's dreams as soon as he enters the red-light quarter. It had a most impressive door. This consisted of a thick slab of wood, plated over with iron and armed with long, sharp spikes of shining metal-perhaps steel-pointing outward, into the street. In its mysterious arrogance it was perfectly suited to heighten the turmoil of any amorous heart. For the docker or stevedore the door symbolized the cruelty that attends the rites of love. If the door was designed for protection, it had to be guarding a treasure such as only insensate dragons or invisible genies could hope to gain without being impaled to bleed on those spikes-unless, of course, it did open all by itself, to a word, a gesture from you, docker or soldier, for this night the most fortunate and blameless prince who may inherit the forbidden domains by power of magic. To be so heavily protected, the treasure had to be dangerous to the rest of the world, or, again, of such a fragile nature that it needed to be protected by the means employed in the sheltering of virgins. The longshoreman might smile and joke about the sharp spear-tips pointing at him, but this did not prevent his becoming, for a moment, the man who penetrates-by the charm of his words, his face, or his gestures-a palpitating virginity. And from the very threshold, even though he was far from a true hard-on, the presence of his prick would make itself felt in his pants, still soft perhaps, but reminding him, the conqueror of the door, of his prowess by a slight contraction near the tip that spread slowly to the base and on to the muscles of his buttocks. Within that still flabby prick the docker would be aware of the presence of another, minuscule, rigid prick, something like the "idea" of hominess. And it would be a solemn moment, from the contemplation of the spikes to the sound of bolts slamming shut behind him. For Madame Lysiane the door had other virtues. When closed, it transformed her, the lady of the house, into an oceanic pearl contained in the nacre of an oyster that 21 I QUERELLE was able to open its valve, and to close it, at will. Madame Lysiane was blessed with the gentleness of a pearl, a muffled gleam emanating less from her milky complexion than from her innate sense of tranquil happiness illuminated by inner peace. Her contours were rounded, shiny, and rich. Millennia of slow attrition, of numerous gains and numerous losses, a patient economy, had gone into the making of this plenitude. Madame Lysiane was certain that she was sumptuousness personified.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Although both of them knew the game they were playing, they still kept it within the bounds of innocence. They were afraid of abandoning themselves to the truth too precipitately, to rend its veil too soon. Slowly, still smiling, to allow Mario to lOS I QUERELLE go on believing in his false naivete (while knowing Mario didn't believe in it for one minute ) -to uphold the pretense that this was merely a joke, child's play, and looking the copper straight in the eye, Querelle undid the buttons : one, two, three. In a voice that he wanted to sound clear but that was vaguely excited he said : "You were right. Not bad." "You like it.". Querelle withdrew his hand. Still smiling. "I told you, I'm not interested in pricks. No matter what size they are." With one hand still on the sailor's shoulder, Mario thrust his other hand into his pocket and flipped his rod out into the open air. He stood there, legs apart, confronting the sailor who was looking at him and smiling. Quere11e whispered : "Not here. Isn't there some other place?'' Close to his ear, Quere11e heard the quiet noise the saliva was making in the detective's mouth. His moist lips were parting, perhaps in readiness for a kiss, the tongue ready to dart into an ear and to flicker about there .. They heard the steam whistle of a night train. Querelle listened to its rumbling, almost breathing approach . The two men had arrived at the railroad embankment. It was dark, but the cop's face had to be very close to his own. Again he heard that sharp little noise, now a little hissing and amplified by the freely flowing spittle. It seemed to him ]ike the mysterious preparation for an amorous debauch the likes of which he had never even imagined. He felt a little disquieted by his ability to distinguish such an intimate manifestation of Mario's, to thus perceive his innermost secrets. Even though he had moved his lips, and his tongue inside his mouth, in a completely natural fashion, it appeared to Querelle as if he were smacking his ]ips at the thought of the ensuing orgy. That quiet spittle-noise in Qucrelle's ear was enough to 206 I JEAN GENET isolate the sailor in his own universe of silence that even the vast noise of the train could not penetrate. It rushed past them with a terrifying roar. Querelle was overwhelmed by such a strong feeling of abandonment that he let Mario do what he wanted. The train disappeared into the night, with desperate speed. It was rushing to some unknown destination, some place serene, tranquil, terrestrial-unlike any place the sailor had known for a long time. Only the sleeping passengers might have been witnesses to his making love to a cop : but they just left him and the cop behind like two lepers or beggars on a river bank. "Hey, now."

• From Querelle (1953)

  94 I JEAN GENET almost immobile fingers, and he had no idea of the life he was imbuing that little tobacco stick with. I was no more able to take my eyes oH his fingers than oH the object they were animating. Animated by such grace, such elegant, delicate, scintillating movements! Querelle stood listening to one of his buddies talk ing about the girls in the brothels. "I have never seen myself.'' Do I have charms another could fall for? \Vho else, besides myself, is subject to Querelle's charms? How could I tum into him? Could I bring myself to graft onto my body his best features: his hair, his balls? Even his hands? To feel more comfortable while jacking off I roll up the sleeves of my pajama top. This simple expedient turns me into a fighter, a tough guy. Thus I then confront the image of Querelle, in front of whom (or which ) I brandish my rod like a lion tamer. But then it's all over again, get the towel, wipe it oH my belly. It is not our design to disengage two or several characters-or heroes, as they have been extracted from a fa bulous domain, that is to say, they have their origin in fable, fa ble and limbo-and . describe them, methodically, as odious. One should rather con sider it to be ourselves, pursuing an adventure unfolding in our selves, in the deepest, most asocial region of our soul; it is, indeed, because he breathes life into his creatures-and volun tarily assumes the burden of sin of this world he has given birth to-tha t the creator delivers and saves his creature, and at the same time places himself- beyond or above sin. May the reader, too, escape from sin, while he, reading our words, discovers in himself these heroes, who have been in hiding until this time . . .

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  And for the first time the idea clearly presented itself that it was essential to put an end to this false position, and the sooner the better. “Throw up everything, she and I, and hide ourselves somewhere alone with our love,” he said to himself. Chapter 22 The rain did not last long, and by the time Vronsky arrived, his shaft-horse trotting at full speed and dragging the trace-horses galloping through the mud, with their reins hanging loose, the sun had peeped out again, the roofs of the summer villas and the old limetrees in the gardens on both sides of the principal streets sparkled with wet brilliance, and from the twigs came a pleasant drip and from the roofs rushing streams of water. He thought no more of the shower spoiling the race course, but was rejoicing now that—thanks to the rain—he would be sure to find her at home and alone, as he knew that Alexey Alexandrovitch, who had lately returned from a foreign watering place, had not moved from Petersburg. Hoping to find her alone, Vronsky alighted, as he always did, to avoid attracting attention, before crossing the bridge, and walked to the house. He did not go up the steps to the street door, but went into the court. “Has your master come?” he asked a gardener. “No, sir. The mistress is at home. But will you please go to the front door; there are servants there,” the gardener answered. “They’ll open the door.” “No, I’ll go in from the garden.” And feeling satisfied that she was alone, and wanting to take her by surprise, since he had not promised to be there today, and she would certainly not expect him to come before the races, he walked, holding his sword and stepping cautiously over the sandy path, bordered with flowers, to the terrace that looked out upon the garden. Vronsky forgot now all that he had thought on the way of the hardships and difficulties of their position. He thought of nothing but that he would see her directly, not in imagination, but living, all of her, as she was in reality. He was just going in, stepping on his whole foot so as not to creak, up the worn steps of the terrace, when he suddenly remembered what he always forgot, and what caused the most torturing side of his relations with her, her son with his questioning—hostile, as he fancied—eyes.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  9 Her girl friends, whom I had looked forward to meet, proved on the whole disappointing. There was Opal Something, and Linda Hall, and Avis Chapman, and Eva Rosen, and Mona Dahl (save one, all these names are approximations, of course). Opal was a bashful, formless, bespectacled, bepimpled creature who doted on Dolly who bullied her. With Linda Hall the school tennis champion, Dolly played singles at least twice a week: I suspect Linda was a true nymphet, but for some unknown reason she did not come—was perhaps not allowed to come—to our house; so I recall her only as a flash of natural sunshine on an indoor court. Of the rest, none had any claims to nymphetry except Eva Rosen. Avis was a plump lateral child with hairy legs, while Mona, though handsome in a coarse sensual way and only a year older than my aging mistress, had obviously long ceased to be a nymphet, if she ever had been one. Eva Rosen, a displaced little person from France, was on the other hand a good example of a not strikingly beautiful child revealing to the perspicacious amateur some of the basic elements of nymphet charm, such as a perfect pubescent figure and lingering eyes and high cheekbones. Her glossy copper hair had Lolita’s silkiness, and the features of her delicate milky-white face with pink lips and silverfish eyelashes were less foxy than those of her likes—the great clan of intra-racial redheads; nor did she sport their green uniform but wore, as I remember her, a lot of black or cherry dark—a very smart black pullover, for instance, and high-heeled black shoes, and garnet-red fingernail polish. I spoke French to her (much to Lo’s disgust). The child’s tonalities were still admirably pure, but for school words and play words she resorted to current American and then a slight Brooklyn accent would crop up in her speech, which was amusing in a little Parisian who went to a select New England school with phoney British aspirations. Unfortunately, despite “that French kid’s uncle” being “a millionaire,” Lo dropped Eva for some reason before I had had time to enjoy in my modest way her fragrant presence in the Humbert open house. The reader knows what importance I attached to having a bevy of page girls, consolation prize nymphets, around my Lolita.

• From Querelle (1953)

  That glance, quick as it was, Querelle caught it. His smile broadened, and in shifting his feet, he performed a quick, seductive "bump." ccso you don't really like working here, eh?" Haying found himself unable to resist such a trite explanation and wording, the officer experienced yet another surge of selfloathing and blushed to observe Querelle's black nostrils quiver delicately and the pretty middle part of his upper lip join in with more rapid and more subtle tremors-clearly a most delightful outward sign of great eff_orts to restrain a smile. "But no, I do like it. But I was down there to help out a buddy. Colas, in fact." "He could have picked someone else to replace him. You're in a pretty incredible state. Do you really like breathing coal dust all that much?" "No, but . . . But then, well, for me . . . " "What's that? What do you want to say?" Querelle let his smile shine bright. He said : "Oh, nothing." That nailed the officer's feet to the floor. It only needed a word, a simple order, to send Querelle to the showers. For a few moments they remained very ill at ease, both of them in a state of suspense. It was Querelle who brought matters to a close. "Is that all, sir?" "Yes, that's all. Why ask?" "Oh, no reason." The Lieutenant thought he detected a hint of impertinence in the sailor's question, and in his answer as well, both delivered 87 I QUERELLE in the sunshine of a blinding smile. His dignity prompted him to dismiss Querelle on the spot, but he could not muster the strength to do that. If bad luck would have Querelle deCide to go back do\vn to the coal bunkers again, he thought, his lover would certainly follow him there . . . The half-naked seaman's presence in his cabin was driving him out of his mind. Already he was heading on down to hell, descending the black marble staircase, almost to those depths into which the news of Vic's murder had plunged him earlier. He wanted to engage Querelle in that sumptuous adventure. He wanted him to play his part in it. \Vhat secret thought, what startling confession, what dazzling display of light was concealed under those bellbottoms, blacker now than any pair ever known to man? \Vhat shadowy penis hung there, its stem rooted in pale moss? And what was the substance covering all these things? Well, certainly nothing but a little coal dust-familiar enough, in name and consistency; that simple ordinary stuff, so capable of making a face, a pair of hands, appear coarse and dirty-yet it invested this young blond sailorboy with all the mysterious powers of a faun, of a heathen idol, of a volcano, of a Melanesian archipelago. He was himself, yet he was so no longer.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  declaimed Stepan Arkadyevitch, just as he had done before to Levin. Vronsky smiled with a look that seemed to say that he did not deny it, but he promptly changed the subject. “And whom are you meeting?” he asked. “I? I’ve come to meet a pretty woman,” said Oblonsky. “You don’t say so!” “_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_ My sister Anna.” “Ah! that’s Madame Karenina,” said Vronsky. “You know her, no doubt?” “I think I do. Or perhaps not ... I really am not sure,” Vronsky answered heedlessly, with a vague recollection of something stiff and tedious evoked by the name Karenina. “But Alexey Alexandrovitch, my celebrated brother-in-law, you surely must know. All the world knows him.” “I know him by reputation and by sight. I know that he’s clever, learned, religious somewhat.... But you know that’s not ... _not in my line,_” said Vronsky in English. “Yes, he’s a very remarkable man; rather a conservative, but a splendid man,” observed Stepan Arkadyevitch, “a splendid man.” “Oh, well, so much the better for him,” said Vronsky smiling. “Oh, you’ve come,” he said, addressing a tall old footman of his mother’s, standing at the door; “come here.” Besides the charm Oblonsky had in general for everyone, Vronsky had felt of late specially drawn to him by the fact that in his imagination he was associated with Kitty. “Well, what do you say? Shall we give a supper on Sunday for the _diva?_” he said to him with a smile, taking his arm. “Of course. I’m collecting subscriptions. Oh, did you make the acquaintance of my friend Levin?” asked Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Yes; but he left rather early.” “He’s a capital fellow,” pursued Oblonsky. “Isn’t he?” “I don’t know why it is,” responded Vronsky, “in all Moscow people—present company of course excepted,” he put in jestingly, “there’s something uncompromising. They are all on the defensive, lose their tempers, as though they all want to make one feel something....” “Yes, that’s true, it is so,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laughing good-humoredly. “Will the train soon be in?” Vronsky asked a railway official. “The train’s signaled,” answered the man. The approach of the train was more and more evident by the preparatory bustle in the station, the rush of porters, the movement of policemen and attendants, and people meeting the train. Through the frosty vapor could be seen workmen in short sheepskins and soft felt boots crossing the rails of the curving line. The hiss of the boiler could be heard on the distant rails, and the rumble of something heavy.