Samuel Beckett posing with a pile of trash
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Samuel Beckett posing with a pile of trash
She is innocent, mad, full of badly remembered memories, guilty of unknown wrongs; she is the seductress, the heiress of all generic Eves. Both sorceress and hysteric, in their way, mark the end of a type-how far a split can go. It is the demoniac figure that comes to its end with the sorceress —— the end sanctioned by the group in death by fire.
A woman marches on the city, dresses herself in green, and though she has been a wretched peasant, becomes almost sovereign on the strength of accumulated gold. “ Never had she been more beautiful. In the black pupil and the yellow white flickered a light no one dared to face, a volcano's sulfurous jet. ” Then suddenly they are hounding her, cutting her green dress off at the small of her back, the dogs are biting her, and she finds herself again at bay, before the door of her house. “ She was spread out there, like the poor screech owl they nail to farm house doors, and their blows rained down all over her. ” Now she finds herself in the heart of the forest. It has become her kingdom; she has become like the animals, “like a wild boar with his acorns" – now her nourishment as well. She lives in the entrance to a caveman's hole. The crows keep her company. People come from all over to consult her, in secret. She is forbidden, menaced by the stake or by the in-pace. But she ensures the survival of the pagan forces of desire. “She has a woman's craving. Craving for what? For Everything of course, for the Great Universal Everything . . . To this immense, deep desire, vast as the sea, she succumbs, she sleeps . . . She slept, she dreamed. The beautiful dream! And how can it be told? That the marvelous monster of universal life was swallowed up inside her; that from now on life, death, everything was held within her entrails, and at the price of such painful labor, she had conceived Nature.” – Sorceress and Hysteric, Hélène Cixous.
“Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her (to sing, to write, to dare to speak, in short, to bring out something new), hasn't thought she was sick? Well, her shameful sickness is that she resists death, that she makes trouble.” Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa.
“I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst — burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn’t open my mouth, I didn’t repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What’s the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts?” — Cixous, Laugh of the Medusa.
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