Julien sits straight up in bed: half past ten have sounded at the church. The wall behind his head is humid and smells of decaying fabric or fungus. The child dares not switch the light on: he's not certain that his parents are asleep. They would see the light under the door that conjoins the two bedrooms. − It's falling harder and harder. I don't know if i'll go. No I'm not going. There won't be anything, it rains too much. No there won't be anything.
Night happens and so naturally light gets besieged by small metamorphoses, kids’ cocks and pens allows in the immobility of the moonlight and uses it as ink or gentle semen, the rain is harder under a moonshield than a sunray would ever permit it to be; I was wondering this morning what Echo and the Bunnymen meant by a ‘killing moon’, and I just now realized how Duvert can enlight us about it a great deal.
Purdey Lord Kreiden was smothered to death by gifts of cloaks and hats showered upon her by appreciative citizens. Her book CHILDREN OF THE BAD HOUR is forthcoming by Ugly Duckling Press in the Fall of 2014.
In a facile attempt at unlikely self-aggrandisement, she would also like it to be shouted from the rooftops that she has co-translated Tony Duvert's l'Ile Atlantique with Michael Thomas Taren (Semiotext(e), forthcoming).
Tony Duvert has a very particular relationship with the moon : he is grossed by it. This is spectacular, as it is common knowledge that the moon itself is grossed by all that is vaguely like a man : it makes your hairs grow faster than it should and engross you with bad chemicals that makes you want to rape others and unleash your dangerous and ashaming beast-self ; if you're a man. Women are exempted from this plague because the moon, pale and indifferent, defecates them. I didn't realized it before Biche said so, how the moon is the symbole of feminity, of motherhood as well, which Duvert despised and on which subject he wrote a whole book of essays stating that it should be forbidden. ‘ Only among men, will we continue making love in the manner of men. I won’t be the one complaining about it’ ( ‘Le droit d’être homo’, in L’enfant au masculin). With the thickest of the moon protuberance making a soft silver earring under the earflesh in the air, where the end of the cheek
and the lobe meets.
Duvert was so hungry all the time the moon must have looked down to him sometimes as it would have to a half-nibbled earlob from a sickling veal, or a languid and rotund cheese like those that are manufactured in the farm in the small town where he lived. Where Duvert’s grew up and where he died are two different places which, with Paris as a starry arrow poiting up to a doomed-lit sky, makes an infinite trangle in which the Atlantic Island as a place can grow and nest. But make not mistake : because of its shitty parents, the island itself isn’t a roosting palace, but simply a little excrescence in the pale crescent of Duvert’s geographies : a lonelied-out place, which one desire briefly and dismiss in the same strock of the wrist : Julien himself has his hand roosted on his sex, his sex of a ten-year old boy. What he just thought disgusts him: he removes the hand.
Moon slave carried drapes for the astrae and their hair grew faster than all the other ones on earth. They were burnt from so many lacteous blum beams bumping solemnly against their scalps, under their layers of skin, and hair –
scalps and skeletons speaks directly with the outer-space. I was born and raised by you, the bi-bones say. You strayed me like a dog and I grew taller than the ice-loaded stalgatics of the Northern desert, and I descended further than the dark lolling weeds of the deeper abysses of the deepest of all the earthly things.
Coming to term with reality Duvert offered his hunger to a sickness : the moon itself. The moon one can see from one's bed watching chunks of water lodged in the throat of two-headed boys coupled in the sky to engross a star immense, and immaculate ; a cock growing smaller and smaller into a foetus stage, a reversed arousal arising from a profound disgust of the night astrae pulsing above our heads like a the malevolent protuberance of a thorned-shaped penis under the evil one's pants ; or a bi-dimensional snakes charmed into lines of flesh, a corporeal scent and names, by the turning of pages.
Lunch was very long, very tiring, very abundant.
When Duvert was writing L'ile Atlantique he was writing in a state of dreamy hunger ; it is said that he seldom ate. The island is patched up from greasy scents and food just out of the oven, deliquescent lunches; one blushes and hugs a big parsnip. In a child's book that I've read many times which was called I think the Bad Wolf of New York (or the Bad Wolf of Manhattan), the narrator which is a young girl describes New York City on a map as an octogonal lump of ham with a spinach heart. This book is to our imaginary digestive system what the briefly envisaged Odorama Porn Videotapes where to our dreamnt sexes ; a place of playful and inadverant synæsthesia, where the horror of feeding oneself (putting into one's body an amalgame of fluids and foreign bodies which would eventually become our own flesh while wearing off from itself) is coupled with its sublime : the act of eating, the relief of the stomach and the mind as well when the food hits the mouth and glides slowly down the throat to the oesophagus and the silvery carmine trail
of blood cells.
On Duvert’s island, the depiction of a horrifying pasta sauce becomes the occasion for a sin which rose under the form of a scene of motherly torture, kids engulfing spaghettis and boulettes to the point of disgust when suddenly the delight of a limpid, sardonic prose is activated ; the greasy recipe through the filter now gleams with the copper glimmers of Heaven's meat.
Raymond Seignelet brought out the pastas and, with the droning yelp that served as her a voice, she menaced: − This is real spaghetti! The italian way! A real sauce! Not from a can! − Just take a look at the meat in it! she added. She put the plate down and stared scornfully at the spaghetti as if to silence them. Slow swayings of circumspect necks, light swirls of cautious shoulders were emitted by the four boys facing the ominously cloudy dish. Submissiveness, disquiet prowled about, and a vague oleaginous greed.
The island becomes alive because each of its parcels is made the screening of its own microorganism as if a carnivorous plant was the main actor of each scene. A vegetable satiety emerges; words toyed between Duvert's palate and his dolent food-thirst are are mouthful of gouters gulped down through the hand to the mind of his stomach, a miraculous cantine arising from the precise description of the dishes: the island is the place of the writing, where the heavenly state described by Gertrude Stein, where to sleep is to eat
governs. About young Joachim :The smell of the burnt toasts interested him.
Burnt toasts, parsnips,
I was born and raised in you like the hollow of a tree is raised in the rumors of distant ravines, the crescent of water gloved in nucleous blood shells. yellow green black
galaxy (silence) two human beings are walking on Earth. Silence. It is night. The streets are lit by lampposts. Crickets sounds in the air.
Crickets do not hum it is their wings rubbing against one another. Soft footsteps. It is warm outside, it's the end of summer or the beginning of spring. The couple of human beings walks in silence for a while, then the camera zooms out of Earth.camera zooms out of Earth.
Earth blows up
Duvert's kids escape the horror of childhood through their sexes, at night when their beds become the lurking place for their left-overs, bundled into a ball clothes and pillowcases piled up to imitate the hills and shadow of their bodies. He lived flat on his stomach, or on his side. He didn't read anything, slept a lot, didn't pronounce a word, and ate almost nothing. One of the wooly rhinoceroses was found frozen
in the same way. There's a prison which is the mortal motherful embrace and when the children choose to replace their own bodies in the warmth of the blankets by a mimesis of the flesh, to burrow the actual flesh that their being is robed in into an intoxicating and burgeoning darkness, they are walking like one walks in dream to a black sun folded into a cherry pit like a dozing ferret, hands held up to the realm of fear with their offerings a cascade of silky white eviscerated rests gushing through their knuckles where the fingers meets
the palm of the hand. These great beasts that the walls of a boy's bedroom would open their mouths to reveal, between two curtains beheaded like indolent scorpions turned to their backs and roasted by a ray of the sun nibbling a stick of grass up and down the stem, those sacrifices made to certain Gods at a time determined by a particular constellation of the moon, a ripeness of night moon mysterious and blind, unknown to the every day daydream, hunted as a food from thirst and unthoughtful desire for descending from the window to the backyard and into the streets at night.
Some kids are all the same ; do nothing with them. They say they're ok, they've done it before, and then someone cums and they get upset. The other kids cum for a star and lovemakes in the backyard, up and down the stem of several sheets tied up together like the tail of a centipede to make a soft leash attaching the window of their bedroom to the firm ground, when it is hanged from the window into the air after bedtime has rang. Some of the pictures from that time might have cuts marks to show where the mothers hoped to strike; some somnolence arise from being bitten by a polymorpha centipede at night. The boys on Duvert's island cascading down their tied-together bed linens at night through the window are blueprints of those scolopendras who patiently hang from ceiling just above the sleepers’ faces and drop themselves down on the dreaming being
(He was on another ocean, on another planet, and already among other men. He no longer had anything to do with his comrades; from so far away, he didn't hear them, no longer even saw them. From as far away as time, the immense future where, leaving forever his family, he had engulfed himself.)
when the latter finally falls asleep. Wholesome sleep cream : sleep produces a froth, a milky drool, a latte of sleep. (Joachim) Violence produces a red, ungeometrick inchoaetuness (Julien)
Duvert's rich touches pigment each paragraph, niching in the thick dull sea mines between each passages a contrast of sensations from which a pervasive feeling of sublime arises. Each paragraph is a touch, a sensation. A young female doctor had, as was expected, severe principles relating to anything that would enter the body. Beginning with of course with foods, remedies, beverages, tobacco, etc. Madame Ambreuse, as to her, was less disciplined: and for example a cup of hot milk or even of chicken brother toward five o'clock with her drops... (the characters themselves are subjected to the violence of the slap of the motion-senses, reacting to the other or the outer world by being sensationalized or, masturbated)
The island is the book, an isle composed of blocks of sensations, and bounded together by the perpetual dual of a stroke and a claw, – Paysage de Fantasie, on the other hand, is a long claw which becomes, by an act of unvolition coming from the reader's eye, a stroke ; the feeling in its monotony becomes transcendant – and the Atlantique depicted rather resembles a tangible Atlantis, a deconstructed portion of the sea, a place of fantasy where colors, forms and emotions are one and
enterwoven. In this sea scolopendras swim patiently above the eyelids of the dreamers, carrying on the shell of their lantern-tinged spines the colorful shandy which under closed eyes transmogrify darkness into the colors of safe dream valves, of ocean fleshs and after-thoughts and mirages.
The water, at sea, when one is within, prevents talking : Francois wasn't in a hurry to fall into this noise. He looked at the little Gassé cleave the wavelettes and approach the golden sun. The minuscule boat had disappeared beyond the butterflying water sphere which resembled the entire world. Camille turned back, sook his face and laughed. He was far off in the oily water. Francois wasn't coming. The kindness of Gassé humiliated him.
The sleep awaited by a centipede is itself a mirage, this fata morganic desert in which you will swap semen or draw pictures of it in the sand in exchange for carved ivory ornaments or pictures of the prey which preceeded the lament of the mammoths with their withdrawal from the sobering bowels of the orange stars