Auletris: Erotica by Anais Nin

Author:Anais Nin
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Sky Blue Press
Published: 2016-10-15T04:30:00+00:00

BOOK TWO

MARCEL

Marcel came, his blue eyes full of surprise and wonder, full of reflections like the river. Hungry eyes avid, naked. Over the innocent, absorbing glance fell savage eyebrows, wild like a Bushman’s. The wildness was again attenuated by the luminous brow and the silkiness of the hair. The skin was fragile too, the nose and mouth vulnerable, transparent, but again the peasant hands, like the eyebrows, asserted his strength. As he stood there he was constantly in mutation between fierceness and assertiveness, and sudden eclipses of his whole being. Constantly oscillating even in the same moment, between his appetite which opened his thick sensual mouth and some pale secret flame of unreality sapping his strength. A sudden confusion that flowed from the ever-surprised eyes, from the golden halo over his fine hair, and the wildness of the eyebrows and brutality of the hands.

In his talk it was the madness which predominated, his madness of analysis. Everything which befell him, everything which fell into his hands, every hour of the day was constantly ripped apart, commented upon. He could not kiss, possess, desire, enjoy, without immediately commenting, relating, describing. He planned his moves beforehand with the help of astrology; he met with the marvellous often; he had a gift for encountering, for inspiring it, for evoking it. But no sooner had the marvellous fallen to him than he grasped it with his peasant hands, grasped it with the violence of a man who was not sure of having seen it, lived it, and who longed to make it real.

I liked him just before he talked. I liked his pregnable self, sensitive and porous, just before he talked when he seemed a very soft animal, or a very sensual one, just before he talked when his malady was not perceptible. He seemed then without wounds, walking about with a heavy bag full of discoveries, notes, programs, new books, new talismans, new perfumes, photographs. He seemed then to be floating on like the house boat, without moorings. He wandered, tramped, explored, visited the insane, cast horoscopes, gathered esoteric knowledge, collected plants, stones.

“There is a perfection in everything that cannot be used,” he said. “I see it in fragments of cut marble; I see it in worn pieces of wood. There is a perfection in a woman’s body that can never be achieved in intercourse, that can never be possessed, known completely.

“I am always left with a hunger, with a hunger for the insolent perfection of a woman’s belly, for the white wickedness of her hips, of her ass. I am never through fucking, I am never through gathering everything in the world, collecting carved bone from the Arctics, collecting cloths, glass, sea-weeds, because there is nothing that I can ever possess. The essence is always beyond me, unseizable, tantalizing.”

He wore the flowing tie of the Bohemians of a hundred years ago...the cap of an Apache, the coat of a horse-racing man, or the striped trousers of the French bourgeois. Or he were

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