L'Abbe C (fiction)

Blue of N oon (fict ion)

Lireraru re and Evil (cri tic ism)

Sto ry of the Eye (fiction w ith essays by Susa n

Sontag and Rol and Barthes)

Eroticis m (phi losophy)

Aiso by Georges BatailleMY MOTHER

MADAME EDW ARDA

THE DEAD MAN

Georges BATAILLETrans lated by Au stryn Wainho use

with essays by Yukio Mishima and Ken Hollings

MA R I ON BOYARSL O ND ON · N E W YORK

""

/' PREFACE

Oeath is the most terrible of ail things ; andto maintain its works iswhat requires the

greatest of ail strength.Hegel

The author of this book has himself insisted upon thegravityofwhat he has to say". Nonetheless, it would seem

adv isable to underscore the seriousness of it, if only beca use ofthe widespread custom of making light of those writings thatdeal with the subj ect ofsexuallife. Notthat 1 hope-orintendto try - to change anything in customs that prevail. But 1invite the reader of this preface to turn his thoughts for amoment to the attitude traditionally observed towardspleasure (which , in sexual play, attains a wild intensity, aninsanity) and towards pain (finall y assuaged by death, ofcourse, but which, before that, dying winds to the highestpitch). A combination of conditions leads us to entertainapicture of.mankind as it ought to be, and in that picture manappears at no less great a remove from extreme pleasure asfrom extreme pain: the most ordinary social restrictions and

.. Bataille wrote Madame Edwarda under the pseudon ym, Pierre Angélique.See publisher's not e.

prohibition s a re, with eq ua l force, aimed so rne agai ns t sexu allife, so rne agains t death , with th e result that each has co me tocomprise a sa nc tified dornainça sacred area wh ich lies underreligiou s jurisdi ct ion . The greate r diffi culties began whe n th eproh ibition s co nnec ted with th e circums ta nces a ttend ing th edis appea rance of a per sori 's life were alone allowed a se riouscha racte r, whilst th ose tou ching th e circ urns ta nces wh ichsurro und th e coming into bein g ofl ife - th e en tirety of ge nita lac tivity - tended to be tak en un seriou sly. It is not a prot estagains t th e profound ge ne ra l inclination th at 1 hav e in mind:thi s inclination is ano ther expression of th e human destinywhi ch would mak e man's rep rodu cti ve organs th e object oflau ghter. But this lau ghter , wh ich accentuates th e pleasure­pain oppos ition (pain a nd death merit respect, wh ereaspleasure is deri sory, d eserving of con te mpt), al so unders coresth eir fund am ental kin ship. M an 's reaction has cea sed tobetoken respect : his lau ghter is th e sign of aversion , of horror .Laughter is th e .com prom ise a tt itude man adopts wh enconfron ted by some th ing whose a ppeara nce repels h im , butwhi ch a t th e same tim e does not strike him as pa rti cularlygrave. And thus when ero ticism is considered with gravity,conside red tragicall y, thi s re presen ts a complet e reversai ofth e ordi nary situation.

1 wish right away ta mak e clear th e total futility of th oseoften-repeated st at ernents to th e effec t that sex ual prohibi­tion s boil down to no more th an prejudices which it is hightim e we ge t rid of. The shame, the modesty sensed incon nec tion with th e stro ng se nsation of pleasure, would be, soth e arg ume nt runs, mere proofs of backwardness a nduni nt elligen ce. Which is th e eq uiva len t of saying th at weough t to undertake a th orou gh hou secleaning, se t fire to ourh ou se a nd take to th e woods, returning to th e good old days ofanimalisrn, of devouring whoever we please and whateve rord ures . Which is th e eq uivalent of forgetting that wh at wecali humanity, rnankind, is the direct result of poign ant ,indeed violen t impulses, a lte rnately of revulsion and a t tra c-

139

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tion , to whi ch sensibility and in tel ligence are insep arablya ttached . But without wishing in a ny sense ta gainsay thelaugh ter that is roused by the ide a or spec tacle of indecency,we . may legitimately re turn - pa rt iall y ret u rn - to a n.a ttitude wh ich ca me to be thrOugh th e operatio n ofla ugh ter.

1t is indeed in laughter th at we find th e j us t ifica tion for afor m of castigat ion , of obloquy. Laughter launch es us alongth e path th a t leads to th e transforming of a prohibition 'sprincipl e, of necessary and mandatory décen cies, into aniron- clad hyp ocrisy, into a lack of understanding or anun willin gn ess to underst and wh at is in volved . Extrernelicen ce wedded with a joking mood is accom pa nied by arefusai to tak e th e underl yin g truth of ero ticis m serious ly: byseriously 1 mean tragicaLIy .

1 sho uld like to mak e this preface th e occasion of à patheticappea l (in th e stron gest se nse); for , in this little book,eroticism is plainly sh own as opening directly ou t up on acertain vista of a ng uish, up on a certain lacera ting conscious­ness ofdis tress . Not th at 1 think it surprising tha t, most often,th e mind sh u ts itself off to this di stress a nd to itseIf, and so ta

speak turning its back , in its stubbornness becom es aca rica ture ofi ts own truth, Ifman nee ds lies . . . why , th en letma n lie. Ther e are, afte r a il, men eno ugh who are proud tod rown th ernselves in th e indifferen ce of the anony mous rnass.. . But th ere is also a will , with its puissant and wonderfulqu alities, to ope n wid e th e eyes , ta see for th rightly and fullywhatis happening, what is. And th ere would be no kn owing wh atis happening if one wer e ta know nothing of th e extre mestpleasure, if one kn ew nothing of extrernest pain .

No t let us be clear on th is. Pierre Angéliq ue is ca re ful to sayso: we know nothing, we a re sunk in the dep th s ofigno ra nce'sdarkness, But we.can at least see wh a t is d eceiving us, wh atdi verts us fro m kn owl ed ge of our di str ess, from kn owin g, mor eprecisely, that j oy is th e sarn e thing as suffering, th e sa me

thing as dying, as death .What th e hearty laugh screens from us, wh a t fet ch es up th e,

MADAM E EDW ARDAGEO RG ES BAT AILLE138

.'\;'M I:"'I':"IJW?\nl 'tt' ,,,,,..,

«xtrcmc joy and of indescribable but miraculous ecstasy. Ifthere is nothing that surpasses our pow ers and ournnderstanding, if we do not acknowledge some th ing grea terthan ourselves, grea ter than we are despite ourseloes, some thingwhich at all costs must not be, th en we do not reach th e insensatemom ent towards which we strive with ail that is in our powerand whi ch at th e same time we exert ail our pow er to stave off.

Pleasure would be a puny affa ir were it not to inv olve thisleap , this staggering overshooting of the mark whi ch com monsense fixes - a leap that is .not confined alone to sexualecs tasy, on e thar is known also to the m ystics of vari ousreligions , one that above ail Christian mystics expe rienced,a nd experienced in this same way. The act wh ereby being­existence - is bestowed upon us is an unbearable surpassing ofbein g, an act no less unbearable than that ofdying. And sirice ,in death , bein g is taken away from us 'at th e same time it isgiven us , we must seek for it in the feeling of dying , in thoseunbearable moments wh en it seems to us that we are dyingbecause th e exis tence in us , during th ese interludes, existsthrou gh nothing but a susta ining and ruinou s excess , wh enthe fulln ess of horror and that ofjoy coincide .

Our minds' operations as weil never reach their finalculmina tio n save in excess . What, leaving aside th erepresentation of excess , what does truth signify if we do notsee th at which exceeds sight's pos sibilities, that which it isunbea rable to see as , in ecstasy, it is unbearable to knowpleasure? what, if we do not think th at whi ch exceeds

th ou ght 's possibilities? . .1

At th e furth er end of this patheti c meditation - whi ch ,with a cry, undoes itself, unravelling to drown in self­repudiation , for it is unbearable to its own self - werediscover God. That is th e meaning , th at is th e eno rmity ofthi s insensate - this mad - book : a book which leads Godup on the stage; God in th e plenitude ofHis a t t ribute s; and thisGod , for a il th at, is what? A public wh ore, in no way differentfrom any other public wh ore. But wh at my sticism could not

bawdy jest , is the identity that exists bctwcen the utmost ipleasure and the utmost in pain: the identity between beinand non-being, between th e living and the death-strickcibeing, between the knowledge which brings one before thi.dazzling realization and definitive, concluding darkness. Tobe sure, it is not impossible that this truth itself evokes a finallaugh; but our laughter here is absolute, going far beyondscorn ing ridicule of som ething which may perhaps berepugnant, but disgust for which digs deep under our skin.

Ifwe are to follow ail the way through to its last the ecstasyin whi ch we lose ourselves in love-play, we have got constantlyto bear in mind wh at we set as ecs tasy' s immediate limit:horror. Not only ca n th e pain 1 or others feel, drawing medoser ta th e point wh er e horror will force me to recoil , enableme to rea ch th e sta te wh ere joy slips into delirium ; but whenhorror is un abl e to quell , to destroy the object that attracts,th en horror increases the o bj ect' s power to charm. Dangerparalyzes ; but , wh en not ove rpoweringly strong, danger canarouse desire. We do not attain to ecstasy save wh en beforethe how ever remote prosp ect ofdeath, of tha~ whi ch destroysus.

Man differs from animal in that he is able to experiencecertain sensa tions th at wound and melt him to the core . Thesesensation s va ry in keeping with th e individ ualand with hissp ecifie wa y of living . But, for example, the sight ofblood, th eodor of vom it, whi ch a ro use in us the dread of death,sornetirnes introduce us into a kind of nauseous state whi chhurts more crue lly than pain. Those sensations associatedwith th e supreme giving- way, th e final colla pse, areunbearable. Ar e there not sorn e persons who daim to preferdeath to tou ching an even com pletely harmless snake? Thereseems to exist a domain whe re death signifies not on ly deceaseand di sappearance, but th e unbearable process by which wedisappear despite ourselues and eve rything we ca n do, eve nthough , at al! costs, we must not disappear. It is precisely thi sdespiteourselues, this at all costs which distinguish th e moment of

H n

say (at the moment it began to pronounce its message, itentered it - entered its trance), eroticism does say: God isnothing if He is not, in every sense, the surpassing ofGod: inthe sense of common everyday being, in the sense of dread,horror and impurity, and, finally, in the sense of nothing ...We cannot with irnpuniry incorporate the very word into ourspeech which surpasses words, the word Cod; directly we doso, this word, surpassing itself, explodes past its defining,restrictive limits. That which this word is, stops nowhere, ischecked by nothing, it is everything and, everywhere, isimpossible to overtake anywhere. And he who so much assuspects this instantly falls silent. Or, hunting for a way out,and realizing that he seals himself aIl the more inextricablyinto the impasse, he searches within himself for that which,capable of annihilating him, renders him similar to God,similar to nothing."

ln the course of the indescribable journey upon which thismost incongruous of books invites us to embark, we mayperhaps make a few more discoveries.

For example, that, perchance, ofhappiness, ofdelight ...And here indeed joy does announce itself within the

perspective of death (thus is joy made to wear the rnask of itscontrary, grief).

1 am by no means predisposed to think that voluptuouspleasure is the essential thing in this world. Man is more thana creature limited to its genitals. But they, those inavowableparts of him, teach him his secret. 3 Since intense pleasuredepends upon the presence of a deleterious vision before themind's eye, it is likely that we will be tempted to try to slink inby sorne back way, doing our best to get atjoy by a route thatkeeps us as far away as possible from horror. The imageswhich quicken desire or provoke the critical spasm are usuallyequivocal, louche: if it be horror, if it be death these imagespresent, they always.present them guilefully. Even in Sade'suniverse, death's terrible edge is deflected away from the selfand aimed at the partner, the victim, at the other - and,

143MADAME EDW ARDA

contradictorily, Sade shows the other as the most eminentlydelightful expression of Iife. The sphere of eroticism isinescapably plighted to duplicity and ruse. The object whichcauses Eros to stir cornes guised as other th an truly it is. Andso it does appear that, in the question of eroticism, it is theascetics who are right. Beauty they cali a trap set by the Devil:and only beauty excuses and reriders bearable the need fordisorder, for violence and for unseemliness which is thehidden root oflove. This would not be the place to enter into adetailed discussion of transports whose forms are numerousand of which pure love slyly causes us ta experience the mostviolent, driving the blind excess of life to the very edge ofdeath. The ascetic's sweeping condemnation, admittedly, isblunt, it is craven, it is cruel, but it is squarely in tune with thefear and trembling without which we stray farther and fartheraway from the truth darkness sequesters. There is no warrantfor ascribing to sexual love a pre-eminence which only thewhole oflife actually has, but, again, ifwe were to fail to carrythe light to the very point where night falls, how should weknow ourselves to be, as we are, the offspring, the effect ofbeing hurling itselfinto horror? ofbeing leaping headlong intothe sickening emptiness, into the very nothingness which al ailcosts being has got to avoid...

Nothing, certainly, is more dreadful th an this faIl. Howludicrous the scenes ofhell above the portals of churches must

. seem to us! Hell is the paltry notion God involuntarily gives usofHimself. But it requires the scale oflimitless doom for us todiscover the triumph ofbeing-whence there has never lackedanything save consent to the impulse which would have beenperishable. The nature of our being invites us of our ownaccord to join in the terrible dance whose rhythm is the onethat ends in collapse, and which we must accept as it is and forwhat it is, knowing only the horror it is in perfect harmonywith. If courage deserts us,' if we give way, then there is nogreater torture. And never does the moment of torture fail toarrive: how, in its absence, would we withstand and overcome

GEORGES BATAILLE142

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NOTES ON PREFACE

1 regret ha ving to add tha t this definition of being and of excesscannot repose upon a philosophical basis, excess surpassing anyfoundational basis: excess is no other than that whereby the beingis firstiy and a bove ail else conveyed beyond ail circumscribingrestrictions . Being is also, doubtless, su bject to certain otherlimits: were this not so, we should not be able to speak (1 toospeak, but as 1 spea k 1 do not forget that not only will speechescape me, but that it is escaping me now). These methodicallyarranged sentences a re possibl e (in a large measure possible sinceexcess is rather the exception than the mie, since excess is thema rvellous, the miraculous . . .; and excess designates theattractive, if not the horrible, attraction, if not horror ­designates every thing which is more than what is, than what exists),but their impossibility is also fund am ental. Thus : no tie everbinds me, never am 1 enslaved , subjugated , 1 alw ays retain mysovereignty, a sovercignty only my death - which willdemonstrate my inability to limit myself to being without excess- separa tes from me. 1 do not dec1ine, 1 do not challengecon sciousness, lacking which 1 cannot write, but this hand thatwrit es is dying from the death promised unto it as its own , thishand escapes the limits it accep ts in writing (Iimits accepted bythe hand that writes, but refused by the hand that dies ).

2 Here then is the primary theological attitude which would bepropounded by a man in whorn laughter is illumination and whodisdains to impose limits, or to accept them: he who knows notwhat a limit is. 0 mark the day when you read by a pebble offire,you who hav e waxed pal e over the text s of the philosophers! Howmay he express himself who bids these voices be still , unless it bein a way that is not con ceivabl e to them?

3 1 could also point out, rnoreover , that excess is th e very principl eand engine of sexua l reproduction : ind eed, divine Prooidence willedthat ·in its work s its secret remain impenetrable! Were it thenpossible to spar e man nothing? The sa mc day when he perceives

~ADA~E EDW ARDAGEORGES BATAILLE

Georges Bataille

it? But the unreservedly open spirit - open to death, totorment, to joy - , the open spirit , open and dying, sufTeringand dying and happy, stands in a certain veiled light: thatlight is divine. And the cry that breaks from a twisted mouthmay perhaps twist him who utters it , but what he speaks is animmense alleluia, flung into endless silence, and lost there.

144

Anguish only is sovereign absolute. Thesovereign is a king no more : it dwells

low-hiding in big citie s. It knits itself up insilence, obscuring its sorrow . Crouchingthick-wrapped , there it waits, lies waiting forthe advent of him who shall strike a generalterror; but meanwhile and even 50 its sorrowscornfully mocksat ail that co rnesto pass, at ailthere is.

GEORGES BATAILLE

that the ground he stands on has fallen out from under his feet, heis told that it has been prooidentially removed! But would he hav eissue of his blasphemy, it is with blasphemy, it is in spittingdefiance upon his own limitations, it is with blasphemy in hismouth that he makes himselfGod.

146

Not wanting trouble, 1 got back into my pants and headedtoward the Mirrors. 1 entered the place and found myself inthe light again . Amidst a swarm of girls, Madame Edwarda,naked, looked bored to death. Ravishing, she was the sort 1had a taste for. So 1 picked her. She came and sat down besideme. 1 hardly took the time to reply when the waiter asked whatit was to be, 1 clutched Edwarda, she surrendered herself: ourtwo mouths met in a sickly kiss . The room was packed with

. men and women, and that was the wasteland where the gamewas played. Then, at a certain moment, her hand slid , 1 burst,suddenly, like a pane of glass shattering, flooding my clothes.My hands were holding Madame Edwarda's buttocks and 1felt her break in two at the same instant: and in her starting,roving eyes, terror, and in her throat, a long-drawn whistledrasp.

Then 1 remembered my desire for infamy, or rather that itwas infamous 1 had at ail costs to be. 1 made out laughterfiltering through the tumult of voices, of glare, of smoke. Butnothing mattered any more . 1squeezed Edwarda in my arms;immediately, icebound, 1 felt smitten within by a new shock.From very high above a kind of stillness swept down upon meandfroze me. It was as though 1 were borne aloft in af1ight ofheadless and unbodied angels shaped from the broadswooping of wings, but it was simpler th an that. 1 becameun happy and felt painfully forsaken, as one is when in thepresence of GOD. It was worse and more of a letdown chantoo much to drink. And right away 1 was filled withunbearable sadness to think that this very grandeurdescendingupon me was withering away the pleasure 1 hopedto have with Edwarda.

1 told myselfl was being ridiculous. Edwarda and 1 havingexchanged not one ward, 1 was assailed by a huge uneasiness .1 couldn't breathe so much as a hint of the state 1 was in, awintry night had locked round me . Struggling, 1 wanted tokick the table and send the glasses flying, to raise the bloodyroof, but that table wouldn't budge, it must have been bolted

149:-JADA:vlE EDWARDA

There - 1 had come to a street corner - there a fouldizzying anguish got its na ils into me (perhaps because

l'd been staring at a pair offurtive whores sneaking down thestair of a urinal). A great urge to heave myself dry alwayscomes over me at such moments. 1 feel 1 have got to makemyself naked , or strip naked the whores 1 covet: it's in stalefleshs tepid warmth 1 always suppose l'Il find relief. But thistime 1 soothed my guts with the weaker remedy: 1 asked for apernod at the counter, drank the glass in one gulp, and thenwent on and on, from zinc counter to zinc counter, drinkingun til ... The night was done falling.

1 began to wander among those streets - the propitiouson es - which run between the Boulevard Poisonnière and theRue Saint-Denis. Loneliness and the dark strung my drunkenexcitement tighter and tighter. 1 wanted to be laid as bare aswas the night there in those empty streets: 1 slipped off mypants and moved on, carrying them draped over my arm.Numb, 1 coasted on a wave ofoverpowerinp freedom , 1 sensedthat l'd got bigger. In my hand 1 held my straight-risen sex.

(The beginning is tough . My way of telling about thesethings is raw. 1 could have avoided that and still made itsound plausible. 1t would have seemed 'likely' , detours wouldhave been to my advantage. But this is how it has to be, thereis no beginning by scuttling in sidewise. 1 continue . . . and itgets tougher.)

to the floor. 1 don't suppose a drunk can ever have to faceanything more comical. Everything swam out of sight.Madame Edwarda was gone, so was the room.

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.................. .................... .................... ............~ .

..... ............ ... ................... ................ the mirrors wherewiththe room's wall s were everywhere sheathed and the ceilingtoo, cast multiple reflections of an animal coupling, but, ateach least mov ement, our bursting hearts wou Id strainwide-open to welcome ' the emptiness ofheaven.'

Making that love liberated us at last. On our feet, we stoodgazing soberly at each other: Madame Edwarda held mespellbound, never had 1 seen a prettier girl - nor one morenaked. Her eyes fastened steadily upon me, she removed apair ofwhite silk stockings from a bureau drawer, she sat onthe edge of th e bed and drew them on. The delirious joy ofbeing naked poss essed her: once again sh e parted her legs,opened her crack, the pungent odor of her flesh and minecommingled flung us both into the same heart's utterexhaustion. Sh e put on a white bolero, beneath a dominocloak she disguised her nak edness. The domino's hood cowledher head, a black velvet mask , fitted with a beard oflace, hid

..... .. ... ... . .. . . . . . ..... .. . . .. .... . .. ... .... . .... .. ...... . .. .... .. . . .. .. . .. ... . .. ... ... ..

robust and handsome person, respectably got up.'Well now,my children, ' in an easy, deep tone , 'up you go.' Thesecond in commandof th e house collected my money. 1 roseand followed Madame Edwarda whose tranquil nakednesswas already traversing the room. But this so ordinary pas sagebetween the close-set tables , through the dense press ofclientsand girls , this vulgar ,ritual of'the lady going up' with the manwho wants her in tow, was , at that mom ent, nothing short ofan hallucinating sol ernniry for me: Madame Edwarda's sharpheels clicking on the tiled floor , the smooth advance of herlong obscene body, the acrid smell 1 drank in , the smell of awoman in th e throes of joy, of that pale body ... MadameEdwarda went on ahead ofme, raised up unto the very clouds. . . The room 's noisyunheeding of her happiness , of themeasured gravity of her step , was royal consecration andtriumphal holiday: death itself was guest at the feast , wasthere in what whorehouse nudity terms th e pig-sticker's stab

MADAME EDWARDAGEORGES BATAILLE150

1 was pulled out of my dazed confusion by an only too humanvoice . Madame Edwarda's thin voice, like her slender body ,was obscene: '1 guess what you want is to see the old rag andruin,' she said. Hanging on to the tabletop with both hands, 1twisted around toward her. She was seated, she held one legstuck up in the air, to open her crack yet wider she used fingersto draw the folds of skin apart. And so Madame Edwarda's'old rag and ruin' loured at me, hairy and pink, just as full oflife as sorne loathsome squid. 'Why, ' 1 stamrnered in asubdued tone, 'why are you doing thar? ' 'You can see foryourself, ' she said, 'l'm GaD.' 'l'm going crazy - ' 'Oh, noyou don ' t, you've got to see, look.. .' Her harsh , scrapingvoice mellowed, she became almost childlike in order to say,with a lassitude, with the infinite smile of abandon: 'Oh,listen, fellow! The fun l've had ... '

She had not shifted from her position , her leg was stillcocked in the air. And her tone was commanding: 'Comehere.' 'Do you mean, ' 1 protested, 'in front ofail these people?''Sure,' she said , 'why not?' 1 was shaking, 1 looked at her:motionless, she smiled back so sweetly that 1 shook. At last ,reeling, 1 sank down on my knees and feverishly pressed mylips to that running, teeming wound. Her bare thighcaressingly nudged my ear, 1 thought 1 heard a sound ofroaring seasurge, it is the same sound you hear when youput your ear to a large conch shell. In the brothel's boisterouschaos and in the atmosphere of corroding absurdity 1 wasbreathing (it seemed to me that 1 was choking, 1 was flushed, 1was sweating) 1 hung strangely suspended, quite as though atthat same point we, Edwarda and l , were losing ourselves in awind-freighted night, on the edge of the ocean.

1 heard another voice, a woman's but mannish . She was a

her face. So arrayed , she sprang away from me, saying: 'Nowlet's go.'

'Go? Do they let you go out?' 1 asked. 'Hurry up , fifi,'she replied gaily , 'you can 't go out undressed.' She tossed memy clothes and helped me climb into them, and as she did so,from her caprice, there now and then passed a sly exchange, anasty little wink darting between her flesh and mine. We wentdown a narrow stairway, encountered nobody but thechambermaid. Brought toa hait by the abrupt darknessofthestreet, 1 was startled to discover Edwarda rushing away,swathed in black. She ran , eluded me , was off, the mask shewore was turning her into an animal. Though the air wasn'tcold , 1 shivered. Edwarda..something alien; above our heads,a starry sky, mad and void . 1 thought 1was going to stagger, tofall, but didn't, and kept walking.

153MADAME EDWARDA

Madame Edwarda, grief - a grief without tears or pain ­had glided into a vacant silence. Nonetheless, 1 wanted to findout: this woman, so naked just a moment ago, wholightheartedly had cal!ed me 'fifi' . .. 1 crossed in herdirection, anguish warned me to go no farther , but 1 didn'tstop.

Unspeaking, she slipped away, retreating toward the pillaron the left, Two paces separated me from that monumentalgate, when 1 passed under the stone overhead, the dominovanished soundlessly. 1 paused, listening, holding my breath.1 was amazed that 1 could grasp it ail so clearly: when she hadrun off 1 had known that, no matter what, she had had to run ,to dash under the arch, and when she had stopped, that shehad been hung in a sort oftrance, an absence, far out of rangeand beyond the possibility ofany laughter. 1 couldn't see herany longer: a deathly darkness sank down from the vault.Without having given it a second 's thought , l 'kn ew' that aseason ofagony was beginning for me. 1 consented to suffer , 1desired to suffer, to go farther , as far as the 'emptiness' itself,even were 1 to be stricken, destroyed, no matter. 1 knew , 1wanted that knowing, for 1 lusted after her secret and did notfor one instant doubt that it was death 's kingdom.

1 moaned underneath the stone roof, then, terrified, 1laughed: 'O r al! men, the sole to traverse the nothingness ofthis arch!' 1 trembled at the thought she might fly, vanishforever . 1 trembled as 1 accepted that, but from imagining it 1became crazed: 1 leaped to the pil!ar and spun round it. Asquickly 1 circled the other pil!ar on the right: she was gone .But 1 couldn't believe it. 1 remained woestruck before theportal and 1 was sinking into the last despair when upon thefar side of the avenue 1 spied the domino, immobile, justfaintly visible in the shadow: she was standing upright ,entranced still , planted in front ofthe ranged tables and chairsof a café shut up for the night. 1 drew near her : she seemedgone out of her mind, sorne foreign existence, the creatureapparently ofanother world and, in the streets ofthis one, less

GEORGES BATAILLE

At that hour of the night the street was deserted. Suddenlygone wild, mute, Edwarda raced on alone. The PorteSaint-Denis loomed before her, she stopped. 1 stopped too,she waited for me und erneath the arch - unmoving, exactlyunder the arch. She was entirely black , sim ply there, asdistressing as an emptiness, a hole, 1 realized she wasn'tfrolicking, wasn't joking, and indeed that, beneath thegarment enfolding her, she was mindless: rapt, absent. Thenail the drunken exhilaration drained out of me, then 1 knewthat She had not lied, that She was GOD. Her presence hadabout it the unintelligible out-and-out simplicity ofa stone­right in the middle of the city 1 had the feeling of being in themountains at nighttime, lost in a lifeless, hollow solitude.

1 felt that 1 was free of Her - 1 was alone, as if face to facewith black rock. 1 trembled, seeing before me what in al! thi sworld is most barren , most bleak . In no way did the comichorror of my situation escape me: She , the sight of whompetrified me now, the instant before had .. . And thetransformation had occurred in the way something glides. In

152

than a phantom, less than a lingering mist. Softly shewithdrew before me until in her retreat she touched against atable on the empty terrace . A little noise . As if 1 had wakedher, in a lifeless voice she inquired: 'Where am I?'

155MADAME EDWARDA

death-shrouds . Strangest ofall- and most disturbing- wasthe silence that ensnared Edwarda- owing to the pain she wasin, further communication was impossible and 1 let myselfbeabsorbed into this unutterable barrenness - into this blacknight hour of the being's core no less a desert nor less hostilethan the empty skies. The way her body flopped like a fish, theignoble rage expressed by the ill written on her features ­cindered the life in me, dried it down to the lees ofrevulsion.

(Let me explain myself. No use laying it ail up to irony whenLsay of Madame Edwarda that she is GOD. But GOD figuredas a public whore and gone crazy - that, viewed through theoptic of 'philosophy,' makes no sense at ail. 1 don't mindhaving my sorrow derided if derided it has to be, he only willgrasp me aright whose heart holds a wound that is anincurable wound , who never, for anything, in any way, wouldbe cured ofit ... And what man, ifso wounded, wou Id ever bewilling to 'die' ofany other hurt?)

The awareness of my irreparable doom whilst, in thatnight, 1 kneJt next to Edwarda was not less clear and not lessimposing than it is now, as 1 write . Edwarda's sufferings dweltin me iike the quick truth ofan arrow: one knows it will piercethe heart, but death will ride in with il. As 1 waited forannihilation, ail that subsisted in me seemed to me to be thedross over which man's life tarries. Squaredagainst a silenceso black, something leaped in my heavy despair's midst.Edwarda's convulsions snatched me away from my own self,they cast my life into a desert waste 'beyond', they cast it therecarelessly, callously, the way one flings a living body to thehangman.

·A man condemned to die, when after long hours ofwaitinghe arrives in broad daylight at the exact spot the horror is to bewrought, observes the preparations, his too full heart beats asthough to burst; upon the narrow horizon which is his, everyobject, every face is clad in weightiest meaning and helpstighten the vice whence there is no time left hirn to escape.When 1 saw Madame Edwarda writhing on the pavement, 1

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Desperate, 1 pointed to the empty sky curved above us. Shelooked up and for a brief moment stood still, her eyes vaguebehind the mask, her gaze lost in the fields of stars. 1supported her, it was in an unhealthy way she was clutchingthe domino, with both hands pulling it tight around her. Shebegan to shake, to convulse. She was sufTering. 1 thought shewas crying but it was as if th e world and the distress in her,strangling her, were preventing her from giving way to sobs.She wrenched away from me, gripped by a shapeless disgust;suddenly lunatic, she darted forward, stopped short, whirledher cloak high, displayed her behind, snapped her rump upwith a quick jerk of her spine, then came back and hurledherself at me . A gale of dark savagery blew up inside her,raging, she tore and hammered at my face, hit with clenchedfists, swept away by a demented impulse to violence. 1tottered and fel!. She fled.

1 was still getting to my feet - was actually still on myknees - when she returned , She shouted in a raveled ,impossible voice, she screamed at the sky and, horrified , herwhirling arms flailing at vacant air: '1 can't stand any more,'she shrilled, 'but you, you fake priest. 1 shit on you-' Thatbroken voice ended in a rattle, her outstretched hands gropedblindly, th en she collapsed.

Down, she writhed , shaken by respiratory spasms. 1 bentover her and had to rip the lace from the mask, for she waschewing and trying to swallow it. Her thrashings had left hernaked, her breasts spilled through her bolero ... 1 saw herflat, pallid belly , and above her stockings , her hairy crackyawned astart. This nakedness now had the absence ofmeaning and at the same time the overabundant meaning of

Finally, the crisis subsided. Hel' convulsions continued a littlelonger, but with waning fury , she began ta breathe again, herfeatures relaxed, ceased to be hideous. Drained entirely ofstrength, 1 lay ful1length down on the roadway beside her. 1covered her with my clothing. She was not heavy and 1decided to pick her up and carry her.. One of the boulevardtaxi stands was not far away. She lay unstirring in my arms. Ittook time ta get there, thrice 1 had to pause and l'est. She cameback to life as we moved along and when we reached the placeshe wanted to be set down. She took a step and swayed . 1caught her, held her, held by me she got into the cab. Weakly,she said: ' ... not yet ... tell him to wait.' 1 told the driver towait. Halfdead from weariness, 1 climbed in too and slumpeddown beside Edwarda.

For a long time we remained without saying anything.Madame Edwarda, the driver and 1, not budging in our seats,

entered a similar state of absorption, but 1 did not feelimprisoned by the change that occurred in me. The horizonbefore which Edwarda's sickness placed me was a fugitiveone, fleeing like the object anguish seeks ta attain. Torn apart,a certain power wel1ed up in me , a power that would be mineupon condition 1 agreeto hate myself. Ugliness was invadingall of me. The vertiginous sliding which was tipping me intoruin had opened up a prospect of indifference, of concerns, ofdesires there was no longer any question: at this point, thefever 's desiccating ecstasy was issuingout ofmy utter inability

to check myself.(Ifyou have to lay yourselfbare, then you cannot play with

words, trifle with slow-marching sentences. Should no oneunclothe what 1 have said , 1 shal1 have written in vain.Edwarda is no drearn 's airy invention , the real sweat of herbody soaked my handkerchief, so real was she that , led on byher, 1 carne to want to do the leading in my turn. This bookhas its secret, 1 may not disclose it. Now more words.)

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as though the taxi were rolling ahead. At last Edwarda spoketo me. '1 want him to take us to Les Halles.' 1 repeated herinstructions to the driver, and we started off. He took usthrough dimly lit streets. Calm and deliberate, Edwardaloosened the ties of her cloak, it fell awa y from her. She got l'idof the .rnask too , she removed her bolero and , for her ownhearing, murmured : 'Naked as a beast. ' She rapped on theglass partition , had the cab stop, and got out. She walkedround to the driver and when close enough totouch him, said:'Vou see .. . l 'm bare-assed, Jack. Let's fuck. ' Unmoving,the .d river looked at that beast. Having backed off a shortdistance, she had raised her left leg , eager ta show him hercrack. Without a word and unhurriedly, the man stepped outof the car. He was thickset, solidly built. Edwarda twinedherself around him, fastened her mouth upon his, and withone hand scouted about in his underwear. 1t was a long heavymember she dragged through his fly. She eased his trousersdown ta his ankles. 'Come into the back seat, ' she told him. Hesat down next to me. Stepping in after him, she mounted andstraddled him. Carried away by voluptuousness, with herown hands she stuffed the hard stave into her hole. 1sat there,lifeless and watching: her slithering movements were slow andcunning and plainly she gleaned a nerve-snapping pleasurefrom them. The driver retaliated , struggling with bruteheaving vigor; bred of their naked bodies' intimacy, little bylittle that embrace strained to the final pitch ofexcess at whichthe heart fails . The driver fell ba ck , spent and near to swoon­ing. 1 switched on the overhead light in the taxi. Edwardasat boit upright astride the still stiff member, her headangled sharply back, her hair straying loose . Supporting hernape, 1 looked into her eyes: they gleamed white. She pressedagainst the hand that was holding her up , the tensionthickened the wail in her throat. Hel' eyes swung to rights andthen she seemed to grow easy. She saw me , from herstare, then , at that moment, 1 knew she was drifting homefrom the 'impossible' and in her nether depths 1 could discern

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a dizzying fixity, The milky outpouring travelling throughher, the jet spitting from the root, flooding her withjoy, camespurting out again in her very tears: burning tears streamedfrom her wide-open eyes. Love was dead in those eyes, theycontained a daybreak aureate chill, a transparence wherein 1read death's letters. And everything swam drowned in thatdreaming stare: a long member, stubby fingers prying openfragile flesh , my anguish, and the recollection of scum-fleckedlips- there was nothing which didn't contribute to that blinddyinginto extinction .

Edwarda's pleasure - fountain ofboiling water, heartbur­sting furious tideflow -'- went on and on , weirdly, unendingly;that stream ofluxury, its strident inflexion, glorified her beingunceasingly, made her nakedness unceasingly more naked,her lewdness ever more intimate. Her body, her face swept inecstasy were abandoned to the unspeakable coursing andebbing, in her sweetness there hovered a crooked smile: shesaw me to the bottom of my dryness, from the bottom of mydesolation 1 sensed her joy's torrent run free . My anguishresisted the pleasure 1 ought to have sought. Edwarda'spain-wrung pleasure filled me with an exhausting impressionof bearing witness to a miracle. My own distress and feverseerned small things to me. But that was what 1 felt, those arethe only great things in me which gave answer to the raptureof her whom in the deeps of an icy silence 1 called 'my heart'.

Sorne last shudders took slow hold of her, then hersweatbathed frame relaxed - and there in the' darknesssprawled the driver, felled by his spasm. 1 still held Edwardaup, my hand still behind her head, the stave slipped out, 1helped her lie down, wiped her wet body. Her eyes dead, sheoffered no resistance. 1 had switched off the light, she was halfasleep, like a drowsy child . The same sleepiness must haveborne down upon the threeofus, Edwarda, the driver and me.

(Continue? 1 meant to. But 1 don't care now . l've lostinterest. 1 put down what oppresses me at the moment ofwriting: 'Would it all be absurd? Or might it make sorne kindofsense? l've made myselfsick wondering about it. 1 awake inthe morning - just the way millions do, millions of boys and

159

• 1 said ' GOD, if He knew wouId be a swine.' He (He would 1 suppose be, atthat particular moment, somewhat in disorder, his peruke would sit ailaskew) would entirely grasp the idea . . . but what would there be of thehuman about him? Beyond, beyond everything ... and yet farther, and evenfarther still . . . HIMSELF, in an ecstasy, above an emptiness ... And now? 1TREMBLE.

girls , infants and old men, their slumbers dissipated forever. . . These millions, those slumbers have no meaning. Ahidden meaning? Hidden, yes, 'obviously'! But ifnothing hasany meaning, there's no point in my doing anything. l'Il begoff. l'Il use any deceitful means to get out ofit, in the end l'Ilhave to let go and sell myself to meaninglessness, nonsense:that is man's killer, the one who tortures and kills, not aglimmer of hope left. But ifthere is a meaning? Today 1 don'tknow what it is. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, who can tell? Am 1going then to find out what it is? No, 1 can't conceive ofany'meaning' other than 'my' anguish, and as for that, 1 know al!about it. And for the time being: nonsense. MonsieurNonsense is writing and understands that he is mad. It'satrocious . But his madness, this meaninglessness - how'serions' it has become aIl ofa sudden! - might that indeed be'rneaningful'? [No, Hegel has nothing to do with a maniacgirl's 'apotheosis' .] My life only has a meaning insofar as 1lack one : oh, but let me be mad! Make something ofaIl this hewho is able to, understand it he who is dying, and there theliving 'self is, knowing not why, its tee th chattering in thelashing wind: the immensity, the night engulfs it and, aIl onpurpose, that living selfis therejust in order. . . 'not to know'.But as for GOD? What have you got to say, MonsieurRhetorician? And you, Monsieur Godfearer? - GOD, if Heknew, would be a swine.* 0 Thou my Lord [in my distress 1cali out unto my heart], 0 deliver me, make them blind! The.storv - how shall 1 go on with it?)

But 1 am done.From out of the slumber which for so short a space kept us

in the taxi , 1 awoke, the first to open his eyes ... The rest isirony, long, weary waiting for death ...

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