The Infinite Library (The Infinite Trilogy) by Kane X. Faucher

Author:Kane X. Faucher [Faucher, Kane X.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Civil Coping Mechanisms
Published: 2011-06-29T00:00:00+00:00

Speaking only in short of breath decrees, Leopold was attempting to sample that other life, the detached life behind the veil of abandon, the immanent life as revealed by machines stacked on top of machines at the throbbing dance club. This was the land of the jubilant sadist and the subversive satyr, the fertile ground of corruption ... of joyous surrender ... all earmarked and decked out in the shifty and unreliable colors of false promises and the glitter of fairy money. A place of youthful exuberance without substance, while Leopold was now too short on youth, and so his lack of substance would be evident if others could peer over themselves. This environment was an affirmation of quiet vengeance, of angry dancers with Bacchanalian smiles on their faces and bodies aloft that always collapsed into silly imitation despair, into shattered narcotic fits and starts and sputtering as if to produce an abomination of meaning while they cleaved desperately to all the old meanings (the youth: simply Aristotelians with a less developed vocabulary). This was yet just another place of the deferred orgasm, of fashion bigotry, and the desperate illusion that loneliness and unhappiness had been vanquished by modern medicine and aggressive retail therapies. Leopold knew this to be yet another vortex of the inane, of plastic repetition, of hapless tarts on display. Why was he here? To test himself? To place his own disgust with such commercial disasters in higher relief, as if he were somehow too clever to be drawn in by its silly blandishments? To be here was already to signal that one had surrendered, despite one's seemingly noble intentions. It would have been disingenuous to describe his distaste for what this club represented, for he was, by his very presence, complicit with it. He was here to draw inspiration from a social tub of lukewarm shit.

It wasn't that Leopold felt alive at the club, for that wasn't the club's deeper purpose in its inveigling nightmare. The club acted as the buffer between long bouts of waiting, a reprieve from responsibility. And this reprieve was granted by the condensation of fast-paced events into one packaged and unbreakable succession of highs, a chain of quasi-orgasmic moments of excitements that grew like bubbles and quickly aborted themselves. The bodies, the music, the fluidity of movement and sound––these were the unparalleled successes of a commercial milieu that never ceased screaming its ecstasy as if in defiance against respectability. If this place could speak of any metaphysical truth, it could only speak it in the present tense, a kind of cosmically ordained episode of vomiting, taking place in a postcard art-deco Hades.

Leopold bent his elbow against the stranger's nagging words that seemed to grow with an amplified echo, battering against the bruised vessel of his fragile ego. Deluged by the manifold sensation of his selected environment. He attempted to cloak himself with the concerns of this place, but found it ill-fitting.

A woman with a closely shaved head and pierced lip seemingly burst out in animal tracks Leopold was determined to follow, to follow despite his lack of nerve.

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