(For an explanation, please refer to the previous Genet post)
Very little of this Corsican remains in my memory: a hand with too massive a thumb that plays with a tiny hollow key, and the dim image of a blond boy walking up La Canebiere in Marseilles, with a small chain, probably of gold, stretched across his fly, which it seems to be buckling. He belongs to a group of males who are advancing upon me with the pitiless gravity of forests on the march. That was the starting point of the reverie in which I imagined myself calling him Roger, a “little boy's” name, though firm and upright. Roger was upright.
I had just got out of the Chave jail and I was amazed not to have met him there. What could I commit so as to be worthy of his beauty?
I needed boldness in order to admire him. Lacking money, I slept at night in the shadowy corners of coal−piles, on the docks, and every evening I carried him off with me. The memory of his memory made way for other men. The last two days, I have again, in my daydreams, been mingling his (invented) life with mine. I wanted him to love me, and of course he did, with the candor that must be joined to perversity for him to be able to love me. For two successive days I have fed with his image a dream which is usually sated after four or five hours when I have given it a boy to feed upon, however handsome he be. I am now utterly exhausted with inventing circumstances in which he keeps loving me more and more.
I am worn out with the invented trips, thefts, rapes, burglaries, imprisonments and treachery in which we were involved, each acting by means of and for the other and never by or for himself, in which the adventure was ourselves and only ourselves. I am exhausted; my wrist has cramps. The pleasure of the last drops, is dry. With him and through him, I lived, between my four bare walls and in a period of two days, everything possible in an existence that kept getting mixed up and that had to be started all over again twenty times, until it became more real than a real one.
I have abandoned the daydream. I was loved. I have quit, the way a contestant in a six−day bicycle race quits; yet the memory of his eyes and their fatigue, which I have to cull from the face of another youngster whom I saw coming out of a brothel, a lad with firm legs and ruthless cock, so solid that I might almost say it was knotted, and his face (it alone, seen without its veil), which asks for shelter like a knight−errant—this memory refuses to disappear as the memory of my dream−friends Our Lady of the Flowers Our Lady of the Flowers 13 usually does.
It floats about. It has less sharpness than it had when the adventures were taking place, but it lives within me nevertheless. Certain details persist more obstinately in remaining: the little hollow key with which, if he wants to, he can whistle, his thumb, his sweater, his blue eyes... If I continue, he will rise up, become erect and penetrate me so deeply that I shall be marked with stigmata. I can bear it no longer. I am turning him into a character whom I shall be able to torment in my own way, namely, Darling Daintyfoot. He will continue to be twenty, though his destiny is to become the father and lover of Our Lady of the Flowers.
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