Bruce LaBruce - No Skin Off My Ass (1991)
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Bruce LaBruce - No Skin Off My Ass (1991)
PANI 愳æ§
© Peter Schillinger
âWe have grown, I know, in the same dark gardens.â
â Yves Bonnefoy, tr. by Anthony Rudolf, from Selected Poems; âO You,â
Paul Jsenfels, Dancers,
Paul Jsenfels :: Dancers, Stuttgart Dance School, printed 1927. Photoengraving. | src liveauctioneers
âSecrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood. Itâs as if youâve eaten it like a bad candy, taken it into your mouth, let it melt sweetly on your tongue, then allowed it to slide down your throat like the reverse of uttering, a word dissolved into its glottals and sibilants, a slow intake of breathâ
And now itâs in you, secrecy. Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.â
- Margaret Atwood, excerpt of Secrecy from The Door
Burial in the desert, Cairo, c. 1904.
âA woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.â
â Ntozake Shange, Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo (via mer-se)
in the middle of the mediterranean sea, brushing my hair with a seashell comb under the moonlight
La danse des fées by Louis Le Breton, from Dictionnaire infernal, 1863.
I will socialize I will grow up I will open myself up for new people I will split an atom with my teeth I will drive through red lights I will talk about my feelings I will cry at work I will read the assigned reading I will call my mom I will ferment in my room I will answer an email I will paint my nails red I will use the big knife I will yell
âLolita isnât a perverse young girl. Sheâs a poor child who has been debauched and whose senses never stir under the caresses of the foul Humbert Humbert, whom she asks once, âhow long did [he] think we were going to live in stuffy cabins, doing filthy things togetherâŠ?â But to reply to your question: no, its success doesnât annoy me, I am not like Conan Doyle, who out of snobbery or simple stupidity preferred to be known as the author of âThe Great Boer War,â which he thought superior to his Sherlock Holmes. It is equally interesting to dwell, as journalists say, on the problem of the inept degradation that the character of the nymphet Lolita, whom I invented in 1955, has undergone in the mind of the broad public. Not only has the perversity of this poor child been grotesquely exaggerated, but her physical appearance, her age, everything has been transformed by the illustrations in foreign publications. Girls of eighteen or more, sidewalk kittens, cheap models, or simple long-legged criminals, are baptized ânymphetsâ or âLolitasâ in news stories in magazines in Italy, France, Germany, etc; and the covers of translations, Turkish or Arab, reach the height of ineptitude when they feature a young woman with opulent contours and a blonde mane imagined by boobies who have never read my book. In reality Lolita is a little girl of twelve, whereas Humbert Humbert is a mature man, and itâs the abyss between his age and that of the little girl that produces the vacuum, the vertigo, the seduction of mortal danger. Secondly, itâs the imagination of the sad satyr that makes a magic creature of this little American schoolgirl, as banal and normal in her way as the poet manquĂ© Humbert is in his. Outside the maniacal gaze of Humbert there is no nymphet. Lolita the nymphet exists only through the obsession that destroys Humbert. Herein an essential aspect of a unique book that has been betrayed by a factitious popularity.â
â Vladimir Nabokov (tr. Brian Boyd), Apostrophes (1975)