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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fantazius Mallare + A Mysterious Oath + +Author: Ben Hecht + +Illustrator: Wallace Smith + +Release Date: November 14, 2008 [EBook #27261] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANTAZIUS MALLARE *** + + + + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class="subbody"> + +<hr class="pg" /> + +<p class="ctr newpg"><img src="images/coverdetaila.jpg" width="156" height="235" + alt="" title="Detail from front cover" /></p> + +<p class="ctr pgbrk top4"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><img src="images/autograph.png" width="336" height="300" + alt="" title="Author's inscription on flyleaf" /></p> + +<div class="main"> +<table class="pub" summary="Publication information"> + <tr><td class="l"> </td> + <td><a name="png.002" id="png.002"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Four</span><span class="ns">] + </span><i>Limited edition for private circulation only, + consisting of two thousand and twenty-five + numbered copies. Only two thousand copies + for sale. Published September 1922</i>.</td> + <td class="r"> </td></tr> +</table> + +<h4><i><small>No.</small> 832.</i></h4> + + + +<p class="rt pgbrk top4"><img src="images/printer.png" width="50" height="84" + alt="Printer's device" title="PRESS OF PRINTING SERVICE COMPANY + CHICAGO" /></p> + + +<p class="ctr sprd top4"><a name="png.004" id="png.004"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Six</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><small>COPYRIGHT NINETEEN-TWENTY-TWO<br + />COVICI - McGEE<br + /><small>Chicago</small></small></p> + +<p class="ctr top2 pgbrk"><small>All Rights Reserved</small></p> + +<h1><a name="png.005" id="png.005"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>FANTAZIUS<br + />MALLARE<br + /><small><i>A Mysterious Oath</i></small></h1> + +<h2>BEN HECHT</h2> + +<p class="ctr top2"><img src="images/publisher.png" width="101" height="67" + alt="Publisher's device" title="" /></p> + +<h3><small>Drawings</small><br + />WALLACE SMITH</h3> + +<p class="ctr top4 pgbrk"><i>Chicago</i><br + />COVICI - MCGEE<br + />1922</p> + + +<h3 class="top4"><a name="png.007" id="png.007"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Drawings<br + /><img src="images/doodad.png" width="25" height="19" + alt="decoration" title="" /></h3> + + +<table class="lof pgbrk" summary="List of Illustrations"> +<tr><td></td><td class="c"><small>Opposite<br + />Page</small></td></tr> + +<tr><td>First Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.021">20</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Second Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.047">42</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Third Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.067">58</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Fourth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.087">74</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Fifth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.105">88</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Sixth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.115">94</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Seventh Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.131">106</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Eighth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.161">132</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Ninth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.201">168</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>Tenth Drawing</td><td class="r"> <a href="#png.209">174</a></td></tr> + +</table> + + + +<div class="illus top4"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eleven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.009" id="png.009" href="images/dedication.png"><img + src="images/dedication-sml.png" width="534" height="233" + alt="decorative header" title="" /></a> +</div> + + + + +<h3>DEDICATION</h3> + + +<p class="start pgbrk"><i><img class="initial" src="images/t.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="T" /><span class="start">his</span> dark and wayward book +is affectionately dedicated to +my enemies—to the curious +ones who take fanatic pride +in disliking me; to the baffling +ones who remain enthusiastically +ignorant of my +existence; to the moral ones +upon whom Beauty exercises +a lascivious and corrupting +influence; to the +moral ones who have relentlessly chased God +out of their bedrooms; to the moral ones who +cringe before Nature, who flatten themselves +upon prayer rugs, who shut their eyes, stuff +their ears, bind, gag and truss themselves and +offer their mutilations to the idiot God they +<a name="png.010" id="png.010"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twelve</span><span class="ns">] + </span>have invented (the Devil take them, I grow +bored with laughing at them); to the anointed +ones who identify their paranoic symptoms as +virtues, who build altars upon complexes; to +the anointed ones who have slain themselves and +who stagger proudly into graves (God deliver +Himself from their caress!); to the religious +ones who wage bloody and tireless wars upon +all who do not share their fear of life (Ah, +what is God but a despairing refutation of +Man?); to the solemn and successful ones who +gesture with courteous disdain from the depth +of their ornamental coffins (we are all cadavers +but let us refrain from congratulating each +other too courteously on the fact); to the prim +ones who find their secret obscenities mirrored +in every careless phrase, who read self +accusation into the word sex; to the prim ones +who wince adroitly in the hope of being mistaken +for imbeciles; to the prim ones who +<a name="png.011" id="png.011"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>fornicate apologetically (the Devil can-cans in +their souls); to the cowardly ones who borrow +their courage from Ideals which they forthwith +defend with their useless lives; to the +cowardly ones who adorn themselves with castrations +(let this not be misunderstood); to the +reformers—the psychopathic ones who publicly +and shamelessly belabor their own unfortunate +impulses; to the reformers (once again)—the +psychopathic ones trying forever to drown their +own obscene desires in ear-splitting prayers for +their fellowman’s welfare; to the reformers—the +Freudian dervishes who masturbate with +Purity Leagues, who achieve involved orgasms +denouncing the depravities of others; to the reformers +(patience, patience) the psychopathic +ones who seek to vindicate their own sexual +impotencies by padlocking the national vagina, +who find relief for constipation in forbidding +their neighbors the water closet (God forgives +<a name="png.012" id="png.012"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fourteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>them, but not I); to the ostracizing ones who +hurl excommunications upon all that is not +part of their stupidity; to the ostracizing ones +who fraternize only with the worms inside +their coffins (their anger is the caress incomparable); +to the pious ones who, lacking the +strength to please themselves, boast interminably +to God of their weakness in denying themselves; +to the idealistic ones who, unable to confound +their neighbors with their own superiority, join +causes in the hope of confounding each other +with the superiority of their betters (involved, +but I am not done with them); to the idealistic +ones whose cowardice converts the suffering of +others into a mirror wherein stares wretchedly +back at them a possible image of themselves; to +the idealistic ones who, frightened by this possible +image of themselves, join Movements for +the triumph of Love and Justice and the overthrow +of Tyranny in the frantic hope of breaking +<a name="png.013" id="png.013"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>the mirror; to the social ones who regard +belching as the sin against the Holy Ghost, +who enamel themselves with banalities, who +repudiate contemptuously the existence of their +bowels (Ah, these theologians of etiquette, these +unctuous circumlocutors, a pock upon them); to +the pure ones who masquerade excitedly as +eunuchs and as wives of eunuchs (they have +their excuses, of course, and who knows but the +masquerade is somewhat unnecessary); to the +pedantic ones who barricade themselves heroically +behind their own belchings; to the smug +ones who walk with their noses ecstatically buried +in their own rectums (I have nothing against +them, I swear); to the righteous ones who masturbate +blissfully under the blankets of their +perfections; to the righteous ones who finger +each other in the choir loft (God forgive me if +I ever succumb to one of them); to the critical +ones who whoremonger on Parnassus; to the +<a name="png.014" id="png.014"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>critical ones who befoul themselves in the Temples +and point embitteredly at the Gods as the +sources of their own odors (I will someday +devote an entire dedication to critics); to the +proud ones who urinate against the wind (they +have never wetted me and I have nothing against +them); to the cheerful ones who tirade viciously +against all who do not wear their protective +smirk; to the cheerful ones who spend their +evenings bewailing my existence (the Devil pity +them, not I); to the noble ones who advertise +their secrets, who crucify themselves on bill-boards +in the quest for the Nietzschean solitude; +to the noble ones who pride themselves on their +stolen finery; to the flagellating ones who go +to the opera in hair shirts, who excite themselves +with denials and who fornicate only on +Fast Days; to the just ones who find compensation +for their nose rings and sackcloth by +hamstringing all who refuse to put them on—all +<a name="png.015" id="png.015"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventeen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>who have committed the alluring sins +from which their own cowardice fled; to the +conservative ones who gnaw elatedly upon old +bones and wither with malnutrition; to the +conservative ones who snarl, yelp, whimper +and grunt, who are the parasites of death; +who choke themselves with their beards; to the +timorous ones who vomit invective upon all +that confuses them, who vituperate, against all +their non-existent intelligence cannot grasp; +to the martyr ones who disembowel themselves +on the battlefield, who crucify themselves upon +their stupidities; to the serious ones who mistake +the sleep of their senses and the snores of +their intellect for enviable perfections; to the +serious ones who suffocate gently in the boredom +they create (God alone has time to laugh +at them); to the virgin ones who tenaciously +advertise their predicament; to the virgin ones +who mourn themselves, who kneel before keyholes; +<a name="png.016" id="png.016"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to the holy ones who recommend themselves +tirelessly and triumphantly to God (I +have never envied God His friends, nor He, +mine perhaps); to the never clean ones who +bathe publicly in the hysterias of the mob; to +the never clean ones who pander for stupidity; +to the intellectual ones who play solitaire with +platitudes, who drag their classrooms around +with them; to these and to many other abominations +whom I apologize to for omitting, this +inhospitable book, celebrating the dark mirth +of Fantazius Mallare, is dedicated in the hope +that their righteous eyes may never kindle with +secret lusts nor their pious lips water erotically +from its reading—in short in the hope that +they may never encounter the ornamental +phrases I have written and the ritualistic lines +Wallace Smith has drawn in the pages that +follow</i>.</p> + + + +<h1 class="pgbrk"><a name="png.017" id="png.017"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Nineteen</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><big>MALLARE</big></h1> + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 20</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.021" id="png.021" href="images/drawing1a.png"><img + src="images/drawing1a-sml.png" width="434" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>First Drawing</p> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="png.023" id="png.023"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-one</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>FANTAZIUS MALLARE</h2> + +<h2>[I]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><img class="initial" src="images/f.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="F" /><span class="start">antazius Mallare</span> +considered himself mad +because he was unable to +behold in the meaningless +gesturings of time, space and +evolution a dramatic little +pantomime adroitly centered +about the routine of +his existence. He was a +silent looking man with black hair and an +aquiline nose. His eyes were lifeless because +they paid no homage to the world outside him.</p> + +<p>When he was thirty-five years old he lived +alone high above a busy part of the town. He +was a recluse. His black hair that fell in a +slant across his forehead and the rigidity of his +eyes gave him the appearance of a somnambulist. +<a name="png.024" id="png.024"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>He found life unnecessary and submitted +to it without curiosity.</p> + +<p>His ideas were profoundly simple. The +excitement of his neighborhood, his city, his +country and his world left him unmoved. He +found no diversion in interpreting them. A +friend had once asked him what he thought +of democracy. This was during a great war +being waged in its behalf. Mallare replied: +“Democracy is the honeymoon of stupidity.”</p> + +<p>There lived with him as a servant a little +monster whom he called Goliath and who was +a dwarfed and paralytic negro. Goliath’s age +was unknown. His deformities gave him the +air of an old man and his hunched back made +him seem too massive for a boy. But in studying +him Mallare had concluded that he was +a boy.</p> + +<p>Goliath had been one of the first symptoms +of Mallare’s madness. He had brought the little +monster home from an amusement park one +summer night. Goliath had been standing +doubled up, his pipe stem arms hanging like a +<a name="png.025" id="png.025"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>baboon’s, his enlarged black head lifted and +his furious eyes staring at a Wheel of Fortune.</p> + +<p>When they left the confetti-electrics of +the park behind, Mallare spoke to the dwarf +whose wrinkled hand he was holding.</p> + +<p>“If you come home with me I will make +you a servant and give you a fine red suit to +wear. Also, I will call you Goliath for no +reason at all, since I am at war with reason.”</p> + +<p>Goliath said nothing but sat staring happily +out of the window of an automobile as +they rode home.</p> + +<p>The home of Fantazius Mallare was filled +with evidences of his past. There were clay +and bronze figures and canvases covered with +paintings. These had been the work of his +hands. It was to be seen that he had once given +himself with violence to the creation of images. +And for this reason he was still known among +a few people as an artist.</p> + +<p>In the days when he had worked to create +images Mallare had been alive with derisions. +<a name="png.026" id="png.026"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>He desired to give them outline. But the +desire went from him. The brilliant fancies +of his thought began slowly to bore him. The +astounding images that still bowed themselves +into his mind became like a procession of mendicants +seeking alms of him. He folded his +hands and with an interested smile watched +his genius die.</p> + +<p>At the time of this curious tragedy Mallare +was thirty. He kept a Journal in which he +wrote infrequently. There was in this Journal +little of interest. Apparently he had amused +himself during his youth jotting down items of +preposterous unimportance.</p> + +<p>“I saw a man with a red face,” he would +write one week. The next he would add a +line, “There are seven hundred and eighty-five +normal strides between the lamp-post and my +front door.” Turning a page a month later he +would meticulously set down the date, the hour +of the day, the direction of the wind and under +it write out, “I have a stomach ache from eating +peaches.”</p> + +<p><a name="png.027" id="png.027"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-five</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>The Journal bristled with innocuous +informations. An acquaintance of the period, +interested in Mallare’s work as an artist, smiled +and commented, “These are, no doubt, symbols. +A psychological code into which you have +translated great inner moments.”</p> + +<p>Mallare answered, “On the contrary. +They are the only thoughts I have had in which +I could detect no reason. It has amused me to +put down with great care the few banalities +which have normalized my days. They are +very precious to me, although they have no +value in themselves.</p> + +<p>“It is the ability to think such absurdities +as you have read that has kept me from suicide. +The will to live is no more than the hypnotism +of banalities. We keep alive only by maintaining, +despite our intelligence, an enthusiasm for +things which are of no consequence or interest +to us.</p> + +<p>“That I saw a man with a red face aroused +in me a gentle curiosity lacking in words or +emotion. The desire to live is compounded of +<a name="png.028" id="png.028"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>an infinity of such gentle curiosities which +remain entirely outside of reason. This never-satisfied +and almost non-existent curiosity we +have toward things, masquerades under the +intimidating guise of the law of self-preservation. +Man is at the mercy of life since, his intelligence +perceiving its monotony and absurdity, +he still clings to it, fascinated by the accumulated +rhythm of faces, impressions, and events +which he despises.</p> + +<p>“It is a form of hypnosis, and these words +I have written in my Journal are the absurdities +by which life seduced me from abandoning +it. I am grateful to them and have therefore +preserved them carefully.”</p> + +<p>The history of Mallare’s madness, however, +is to be found in this Journal. There are +two empty pages that stare significantly. The +empty pages are a lapse. It was during this +lapse that Mallare smiled with interest at the +spectacle of his disintegration. There follows, +then, a sudden excited outburst, undated. In it +the beginnings of his madness pirouette like +tentative dancers.</p> + +<p><a name="png.029" id="png.029"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Perhaps the greatest miracle is that which +enables man to tolerate life,” the passage starts, +“which enables him to embrace its illusions +and translate its monstrous incoherence into +delightful, edifying patterns. It is the miracle +of sanity. To stand unquestioning before mysteries, +to remain an undisturbed part of chaos, +ah! what an adjustment! Content and even +elate amid the terrible circle of Unknowns, +behold in this the heroic stupidity of the +sane … a stupidity which has already outlived +the Gods.</p> + +<p>“Man, alas, is the only animal who hasn’t +known enough to die. His undeveloped senses +have permitted him to survive in the manner +of the oyster. The mysteries, dangers, and +delights of the sea do not exist for the oyster. +Its senses are not stirred by typhoons, impressed +by earthquakes or annoyed by its own insignificance. +Similarly, man!</p> + +<p>“The complacent egomania of man, his +tyrannical indifferences, his little list of questions +and answers which suffices for his wisdom, +<a name="png.030" id="png.030"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>these are the chief phenomena or symptoms of +his sanity. He alone has survived the ages by +means of a series of ludicrous adjustments, +until today he walks on two legs—the crowning +absurdity of an otherwise logical Nature. +He has triumphed by specializing in his weaknesses +and insuring their survival; by disputing +the simple laws of biology with interminable +banalities labelled from age to age as religions, +philosophies and laws.</p> + +<p>“Unable, despite his shiftiness, to lie +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'the the'">the</ins> fact of his mortality and decomposition out +of existence, he has satisfied his mania for survival +by the invention of souls. And so behold +him—spectacle of spectacles—a chatty little +tradesman in an immemorial hat drifting good-naturedly +through a nightmare.</p> + +<p>“It is for this ability to exist unnaturally +that he has invented the adjective sane. But +here and there in the streets of cities walk +the damned—creatures denied the miracle of +sanity and who move bewilderedly through +their scene, staring at the flying days as at the +fragments of another world. They are conscious +<a name="png.031" id="png.031"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Twenty-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>of themselves only as vacuums within +which life is continually expiring.</p> + +<p>“Alas, the damned! From the depths of +their non-existence they contemplate their fellowman +and perceive him a dwarf prostrate +forever before solacing arrangements of words; +an homunculus riding vaingloriously on the +tiny river of ink that flows between monstrous +yesterdays and monstrous tomorrows; a baboon +strutting through a mirage.”</p> + +<p>The history of Mallare’s madness begins +thus. And the pages continue. The writing on +them seems at a glance part of a decoration in +black and white. The letters are beautifully +formed and shaded. They resemble laboring +serpents, dainty pagodas, vines bearing strange +fruits and capricious bits of sculpture.</p> + +<p>To the end Mallare fancied himself aware +of the drift and nuance of his madness. Its convolutions +seemed neither incomprehensible +nor mysterious to him.</p> + +<p>An intolerable loathing for life, an illuminated +contempt for men and women, had +<a name="png.032" id="png.032"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>long ago taken possession of him. This philosophic +attitude was the product of his egoism. +He felt himself the center of life and it became +his nature to revolt against all evidences of life +that existed outside himself. In this manner +he grew to hate, or rather to feel an impotent +disgust for, whatever was contemporary.</p> + +<p>When his normality abandoned him, he +avoided a greater tragedy. In a manner it was +not Mallare who became insane. It was his +point of view that went mad. Although there +are passages in the Journal that escape coherence, +the greater part of the entries are simple +almost to naiveté. They reveal an intellect able +to adjust itself without complex uprootings to +the phenomena engaging its energies. The first +concrete evidence of the loathing for life that +was to result in its own annihilation appears in +a passage beginning abruptly—</p> + +<p>“Most of all I like the trees when they are +empty of leaves. Their wooden grimaces must +aggravate the precisely featured houses of the +town. People who see my work for the first +<a name="png.033" id="png.033"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>time grow indignant and call me sick and artificial. +(Bilious critics!) But so are these trees.</p> + +<p>“People think of art in terms of symmetry. +With a most amazing conceit they have decided +upon the contours of their bodies as the standards +of beauty. Therefore I am pleased to look +at trees or at anything that grows, unhandicapped +by the mediocritizing force of reason, +and note how contorted such things are.”</p> + +<p>Mallare’s point of view toward his world—the +attitude that went mad—was nothing more +involved than his egoism. His infatuation with +self was destined to arrive at a peak on whose +height he became overcome with a dizziness. +He wrote in his Journal:</p> + +<p>“It is unfortunate that I am a sculptor, a +mere artist. Art has become for me a tedious +decoration of my impotence. It is clear I should +have been a God. Then I could have had my +way with people. To shriek at them obliquely, +to curse at them through the medium of clay +figures, is a preposterous waste of time. A +wounded man groans. I, impaled by life, emit +statues.</p> + +<p><a name="png.034" id="png.034"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“As a God, however, I would have found +a diversion worthy my contempt. I would have +made the bodies of people like their thoughts—crooked, +twisted, bulbous. I would have given +them faces resembling their emotions and converted +the diseases of their souls into outline.</p> + +<p>“What fatuous, little cylindrical creatures +we humans are! With our exact and placid +surfaces that we call beauty. And these grave +and noble houses we erect!</p> + +<p>“Yes, I ought to have been a God. I should +have had my way with people then. I could +have created a world whose horrors would have +remained a consoling flattery to my cynicism.”</p> + +<p>There are entries that follow whose significance +is lost in a serpentine rhetoric. They +hint at nights of critical terrors. During the +writing of them Mallare was engaged in a desperate +pursuit of himself. He was escaping. +He perceived his thoughts racing from his +grasp like Maenads down a tangled slope. The +dread of finding himself abandoned brought +his will into life. If he were to go mad he +<a name="png.035" id="png.035"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>would leap upon his mania and ride it—quietly +into darkness. He would be a gay rider astride +his own phantoms. Rather that than let the +first insane capering of his intellect unhorse +him and leave him gibbering after a vanished +mount.</p> + +<p>The incoherence of the Journal suddenly +glides into an adagio. The panic has ended. +And the lifeless eyed man again smiles triumphant +out of the pages.</p> + +<p>“My room is red. It is hung with red curtains. +I have bought only red things to put in +it. The sun coming through my red curtains +reddens the air of the room.</p> + +<p>“I prefer to live in this painted gloom +because it is possible I hate the sunlight. I +hate even my rivals the trees. Today I walked +and found trees that resembled too closely +people passing under them. One is impotent +before such betrayal.</p> + +<p>“But here in my rooms I find an almost +complete annihilation of life. I am bored with +inventing causes for my hatred. There is a +<a name="png.036" id="png.036"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>diversion on earth called humanity—creatures +full of enamelled lusts and arrogant decays +who go about smiling and slyly obeying laws +which protect them from each other. But they +no longer divert me.</p> + +<p>“They tell me of health and sanity. And +I say sanity is the determined blindness which +keeps us from seeing one another. More than +that, of course: which keeps us from seeing +ourselves. And health is the lame artifice of +our bodies which keeps us from loathing one +another. I see and I loathe. Yet I must beware +of falling to sleep in explanations.”</p> + +<p>A month or a year may have passed +between this and the continuation. Whatever +the period, a clarity arrived. Mallare’s mind +grappling with the nightmare shadows engulfing +it, distorted his reason to give them outline +and was saved. The writing, however, becomes +more labored in appearance as if the letters +of words were now decorations in themselves.</p> + +<p>“I have listened for years to the prattle +of men who call themselves egoists. It is a +<a name="png.037" id="png.037"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>title by which they have sought to identify +me. To label a mystery suffices for its dismissal +and thus they seek to dismiss me. There +is in egoism, however, a depth to which all +but myself are blind. I have found this depth +in myself and out of it rises a definition which +I must consider cautiously. There is but one +egoist and that is He who, intolerant of all +but Himself, sets out to destroy all but Himself. +Egoism is the despairing effort of man +to return to his original Godhood; to return +to the undisputed and triumphant loneliness +which was His when as a Creator He moulded +the world to His whims and before He divided +Himself into the fragments of race and nature. +This is the explanation out of the depth.</p> + +<p>“I must be cautious and keep my eyes +open. Secrets fly from the blind. Mount, I +say, and ride this secret and observe its direction. +To return thus to Godhood means to +destroy All. And I were madder than I am +to play with this prospect, unless, perhaps, +there lie concealed in the elements, chemistries +<a name="png.038" id="png.038"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>still unknown which might be utilized for +such destruction.</p> + +<p>“As it is, I can with my thought deny +and re-create and impose upon the world of +reality a world of phantoms more pleasing to +my nature. In my red room I sit and give +birth to persuasive horrors. People shaped +like dead trees. People freed from the monotonous +hypocrisy with which a despondent +Nature endows their outlines. I have become +aware that lobsters, beetles, crabs, and all the +crustacean monsters that abound are not the +abnormal accidents of creation, any more than +were the animate gargoyles of prehistoric eras. +They are the things which an Ego intent upon +the diversion of truth fashioned in the beginning. +Each thing to seem as each thing was. +But the courage of this Ego deserted Him and +He grew frightened when He came to give +body to His most useless creation—Thought. +And He compromised. Yes, I could live +among people fashioned truthfully in their +own images as are the crustaceans.”</p> + +<p><a name="png.039" id="png.039"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>With this entry Mallare found it necessary +to destroy the work his hands had created. +He attacked the canvases and figures in his +red room. Goliath who, preoccupied with his +own deformities, had remained indifferent to +his master, serving him faithfully however, +listened to Mallare one night.</p> + +<p>Sitting in the center of the room, his black +hair grown into a long slant across his pale +forehead, Mallare talked to his servant as a +man, still asleep, reciting a dream.</p> + +<p>“Here in this room, Goliath,” he said, +“are interesting works of art which I am about +to destroy. On the canvases are dithyrambic +burlesques in color, vicious fantasies, despairing +caricatures. My fingers fashioned them +and I remember the pleasant sleep each +brought me. But now I must beware of sleep. +My egomania, like a swollen thing, has become +impossible to articulate or to reduce to the +impotent ironies of clay and paint. But I +must beware of falling asleep under it.</p> + +<p>“My friends have vanished as naturally +as if by death. I have forbidden them to come. +<a name="png.040" id="png.040"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>This disturbs them, but see to it, Goliath, that +no one ever enters my room unless I bring +them. Frighten them if they come.</p> + +<p>“Tonight, while there remained a little +sanity, I had made up my mind to kill myself. +But I have changed it. I will destroy instead +my work. This is because I find the compromise +easier and the destruction, perhaps, more +interesting. I feel disinclined to abandon the +things I loathe. The world with its nauseous +swarm of life, its monstrous multiplications +which are the eternal insult to the Omniscience +I feel, still holds me. I am caught in a tangle +and I remain suspended and inanimate, in the +depth of a nightmare. But with your aid, +Goliath, I will continue tenaciously mimicking +an outward sanity so that people, when +they see me, will go away happy in the assurance +that I am as stupid as they.”</p> + +<p>Rising from his chair Mallare attacked, +one by one, the canvases and statues. Goliath +watched him in silence as he moved from pedestal +to pedestal from which, like a company +of inert monsters, arose figures in clay and +<a name="png.041" id="png.041"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Thirty-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>bronze. The first of them was a man four +feet in height but massive-seeming beyond +its dimensions. Mallare had entitled it “The +Lover.”</p> + +<p>Its legs were planted obliquely on the +pedestal top, their ligaments wrenched into +bizarre muscular patterns. Its body rose in +an anatomical spiral. From its flattened pelvis +that seemed like some evil bat stretched in +flight, protruded a huge phallus. The head of +the phallus was enlivened with the face of a +saint. The eyes of this face were raised in +pensive adoration. At the lower end of the +phallus, the testicles were fashioned in the +form of a short-necked pendulum arrested at +the height of its swing. The hands of the +figure clutched talon-like at the face and the +head was thrown back as if broken at the neck. +Its features were obliterated by the hands +except for the mouth which was flung open +in a skull-like laugh.</p> + +<p>The figure on the whole was the flayed +caricature of a man done so cunningly that +<a name="png.042" id="png.042"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>through the abortive hideousness of its outlines, +its human character remained untouched.</p> + +<p>Mallare swung the figure by its base +against the pedestal until it splintered and fell +to pieces. He stood whispering to himself—</p> + +<p>“This was the lover. My statue of the +lover. Dead, now.”</p> + +<p>A dozen similar caricatures in clay and +bronze vanished under his attack. Standing +against the wall and blinking at the rutilant +glare of the room, Goliath the dwarf waited +nervously. He had become aware that his +master was acting strangely. A look of ferocity +slowly came into the deep black of his +face. His misshapen body trembled.</p> + +<p>Mallare, the destruction ended, turned to +him.</p> + +<p>“And finally a last figure,” he murmured. +“Goliath, too. Do you agree, Goliath? You +will find a congenial company in the souls of +these friends I have butchered.”</p> + +<p>Goliath shook his head vigorously.</p> + +<p>“Go ’way,” he answered. Mallare nodded.</p> + +<p><a name="png.043" id="png.043"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-one</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Thanks,” he smiled. “You reminded me +in time. It is easy to mistake you for one of +my creations. Although I never created such +eyes, improbable eyes alive with murders. Go +to bed.”</p> + +<p>Alone amid the wreckage, Mallare turned +to his Journal. A precise smile was on his +lips and his eyes slanted toward the debris on +the floor as if he were watching the fragments, +fearfully. His hair made a black triangle +against his forehead. He began to write:</p> + +<p>“I am too clever to go mad. To go mad +is to succumb to the sanity of others. Since I +avoid death, I must be wary of his misshapen +brother. Yet, I can prove to my satisfaction +tonight that I am mad. I have destroyed something. +It was because the intricate presences +of life awaken too many despairs in me.</p> + +<p>“Now I am alone. I must be cautious of +my thought. I feel words like rivals in my +head. Alas, I must think in words. Words +are the inevitable canonizations of life. But +worse, they are property loaned me and not +<a name="png.044" id="png.044"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>my own. I must have my own and live with it +entirely. Yet there is some comfort in words. +They are not entirely sullied by their promiscuity. +Words are like nuts people pass each +other without ever opening. The insides of +words are often virginal. But many words—too +many words—constitute intelligence and +intelligence is the stupidity which enables man +to imprison himself in lies.</p> + +<p>“Years have passed and I still live. I do +not look for death. Death is too simple a +variant of destruction. My cleverness demands +more of me than to destroy the world by hiding +myself from it. And there is a song of +windows in the high streets that sometimes +relieves the black tension of my mind.</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">“It is important now that I retrace my +way toward a makeshift of Omnipotence. But +for this I will have to find a woman.”</p> + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 42</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.047" id="png.047" href="images/drawing2a.png"><img + src="images/drawing2a-sml.png" width="433" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Second Drawing</p> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="png.049" id="png.049"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-three</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[II]</h2> + + + + + +<p class="start"><img class="initial" src="images/i.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="I" /><span class="start">t</span> was autumn. The air was +colored like the face of a +sick boy. Upon the streets +rested a windless chill. The +pavements were somber as +during rain. There was an +absence of illusion about +buildings. They stood, high +thrusts of brick, stone and +glass, etched geometrically against a denuded +sky.</p> + +<p>Fantazius Mallare walked slowly toward +his home. Over his head, trees without leaves +stamped their gnarled and intricate contours +on the shadowed air. A pallor covered the +roofs. It was afternoon but a moon-like loneliness +haunted the autumn windows.</p> + +<p><a name="png.050" id="png.050"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-four</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Mallare lived in another world. Neither +trees nor buildings conveyed themselves to his +thought. Within his own world he was sane. +His relation to the phantoms and ideas which +peopled his mind was a lucid one. Mallare’s +world was his thought. He had retired within +himself, dragging his senses after him.</p> + +<p>The street through which he walked was +like an unremembered dream. The faces that +passed him vanished before his eyes. He +walked, seeing nothing that was visible, hearing +nothing that had sound. He had accomplished +an annihilation.</p> + +<p>Three months had passed since he had +written in his Journal the command to find a +woman. She was waiting for him now as he +returned to his home. In the three months he +had devoted himself to her transformation.</p> + +<p>Mallare no longer raged. In the lucidity +of his thought was a strange lapse. There had +vanished from it all images of life except those +of his own creation. His thought emptied of +its projective sense, he found it difficult for +<a name="png.051" id="png.051"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>him to translate his ideas in their relation to +the world from which they had escaped. Yet +he wrote in his Journal;</p> + +<p>“I am aware of something that no longer +lives in my mind. Dim outlines haunt me. +Dead memories peer through the windows of +my tower. Life grimaces vaguely on the edges +of my madness. I can no longer see or understand. +The world is a memory that expires +under my thought. I am alone. Yet how +much of me must still be the world! My dearest +phantoms are, after all, no more than distorted +reminiscences. I fear, alas, this is the +truth. Yet it is pleasant to be alone with one’s +senses, to feel an independence.”</p> + +<p>The woman awaiting him was a curious +creature. He had found her with a family of +gypsies on the outskirts of the city. She was +young—eighteen. His money had bought her +release. She was called Rita and after two +weeks she had agreed to come home with him. +An old man in the caravan had said to her:</p> + +<p>“This man is crazy. You can see that by +his eyes and the way he walks. I have listened +<a name="png.052" id="png.052"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to him for two weeks and I know he is crazy. +But you go with him, Rita. He is lonely and +wants a woman. You go with him and obey +him. You are young and he will teach you. +Perhaps even you will fall in love with him. +You are an ignorant child. Your mind is like +a baby’s. And perhaps you will not understand +that he is crazy.”</p> + +<p>Among the gypsies with whom she had +lived Rita was known as a simple one. She +was never to be trusted to enter the cities they +visited. She would remain with the wagons, +helping to cook and wash. When men came +to her in the evening and, sitting beside her, +sang and played on guitars, she would listen +for a moment and then run off. The old ones +of the caravan said:</p> + +<p>“She is not grown up. We must treat her +like a child because there is still only a child’s +heart in her. She is beautiful but without +sense. Some day she will make a good wife. +But there is danger that she may give her body +to strangers. Because she does not know about +such things. We must be careful for her.”</p> + +<p><a name="png.053" id="png.053"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Sitting along the summer roads outside +the city Mallare talked to the child. She listened +without understanding but after days +had passed, dreams of the man with the black +hair slanting across his forehead came to her +when she was alone. So when the Old One of +the caravan said—</p> + +<p>“You may go with this stranger. You can +go away if you wish”; she nodded and smiled +with happiness.</p> + +<p>Mallare brought her home. And she had +lived in the carnelian room that was colored +like the inside of a Burgundy bottle ever since. +Goliath was her slave. Mallare was her God.</p> + +<p>At first he had said little to her. She +wanted him to talk but he neither talked nor +paid other attention. He brought her ribbons +and dresses, trinkets, jewels, and playthings. +She had a room in which to sleep but all day +she sat in the room that was hung with heavy +red curtains through which the sun filtered in +a rouged and somber glow. Vermilion fabrics +covered a long couch against the wall. Red +<a name="png.054" id="png.054"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>carpets, red tapestries, tawny vases of brass +inlaid with niello; crimsons and varying reds +struck an insistent octave of color around her.</p> + +<p>Mallare was absent during the days. She +wondered where he went. He would return +in the evenings with gifts. This had continued +for a month. Then had begun a more curious +existence.</p> + +<p>One night Mallare had said to her:</p> + +<p>“You must never talk to me any more but +listen always to what I say. If you remain +here you will have everything you wish. But +you must not go outside. Do you understand?”</p> + +<p>She closed her black eyes and nodded. +He continued—</p> + +<p>“I desire to make something out of you. +If you stay here you will learn what I want +you to be.”</p> + +<p>Thereafter he had sat for days at a time +in the room with her. Goliath brought them +food.</p> + +<p><a name="png.055" id="png.055"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Forty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>To Rita the smiling man who never +ceased talking to her became like one of the +Djinns the old ones of the caravan used to tell +stories about, in the nights along the roads. +The words he spoke became a languorous mist +in her ears. She listened and understood only +that this man with the black hair slanted across +his forehead and the silent eyes, was talking to +her. This made her happy.</p> + +<p>At night she slept alone dreaming of the +sound of his voice. Her heart became filled +with awe. The strange room with its red colors +was a Temple such as she had heard about +but never seen. Mallare was a God who sat +in its center and around whom grew a world +of mysteries.</p> + +<p>When she awoke her heart grew eager. +Perhaps he would let her sit closer to him this +new day. Perhaps his hands would touch her +hair. She dreamed that some time he would +play a guitar and sing to her as the men of the +caravan used to do. But if that happened she +would not run away as before. She would +draw close to him and kiss his hands.</p> + +<p><a name="png.056" id="png.056"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>But the two months had passed without +change. Except that the days became for Rita +only the sound of a voice in her heart and the +image of a face staring out of her secret +thoughts.</p> + +<p>She wore fine clothing. Rings crowded +her fingers until her hands seemed little effigies +of themselves. Her black hair was looped over +her ears. A gold band was around it. She +would have been happy if he had sat closer to +her while he talked. Then the mystery of the +words he spoke would not have separated +them. Now she could lie on the couch, her +head on her hand, her eyes burning and watch +his lips move.</p> + +<p>Her mind never asked what he was saying. +His words carried him away. They were +part of the mystery of him. Out of them she +gleaned fugitive meanings as one recognizes +for an instant familiar faces in a passing +crowd. But she was content to lie watching +him. A lethargy filled her. The days were +like parts of a dream. At night, alone, she lay +<a name="png.057" id="png.057"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>awake remembering them as a child playing +with delicious fantasies.</p> + +<p>She was asleep on the couch when Mallare +came in. Goliath shuffled away as his +master appeared. He had been standing in the +center of the room, staring at the sleeping +Rita, his eyes rolled up and his huge black +head rigid.</p> + +<p>She woke and Mallare smiled at her. Her +eyes grew large and her red lips parted.</p> + +<p>Mallare, seating himself, studied her with +calm. She was his creation. He was giving +her life. His mind was beginning to conceive +her as a part of the phantoms that lived in him +and that were his world. This illusion diverted +him. His objective sense fast vanishing, he +was gradually perceiving her as a tangible +outline of his own hallucinations.</p> + +<p>She was no longer the childish-minded +gypsy girl he had found with the caravan. She +was a fantasy of Mallare. There was no body +to her but the body of his curious thoughts. A +silent and adoring image of his brain stared +<a name="png.058" id="png.058"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>back at him from the vermilion couch. This +pleased him.</p> + +<p>His madness had translated her into his +inner world. At moments a gleam of doubt disturbed +his illusion. As he talked a consciousness +of her eyes would tangle his words. Her +eyes would become two dark intruders, and he +would rise and walk away.</p> + +<p>“I must be careful,” he would mutter +nervously.</p> + +<p>Away from her the illusion would leave +him and his thought would consider lucidly +the situation it had created.</p> + +<p>“My madness plays with a dangerous +toy,” he pondered. “She is a woman and her +eyes are filled with desire. Perhaps she has not +even understood the things I have told her. I +must be careful, however, not to betray my +illusions with this lingering sanity. When I +am with her I conceive her a phantom—a +something which has stepped out of my madness +to divert it. Her body becomes like one +of the dreams in my brain. Her little hands +<a name="png.059" id="png.059"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>reach like cobra heads among my intimacies. +She is very beautiful that way. In my mind I +caress her as a part of myself. I speak to her +and it seems as if my words are talking to each +other. Yet her eyes intrude and frighten me.”</p> + +<p>Now, as he studied her, the illusion he +desired again filled him. His eyes turned +inward saw only a dark-eyed phantom, a +woman of mist that was no more than a hallucination +drifting through his thought. He +addressed this image of Rita softly.</p> + +<p>“It is pleasant to be in love with you,” he +said. “Because love hitherto has been one of +the abominations. In the world I have +destroyed love existed. It was the foul paradox +of egoism. Man, feeling suddenly the +torment of his incompleteness, embraced +woman. He was inspired by the mania to transform +his desires into possessions.</p> + +<p>“His heart taunted him. His brain filled +with despairing vacuums. And he said to himself, +‘I have become a deserted room. A woman +will enter. Her beauty and desire will be gifts +<a name="png.060" id="png.060"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>that will furnish me once more. She will be +something I possess within myself.’</p> + +<p>“In this illusion was contained the foul +paradox of egoism. For in the world I have +destroyed, egoism died in the embrace of love. +The mania for possession which flattered man +into seeking woman was no more than a +shrewd mirage of his senses, that tricked him +into the fornications necessary only incidentally +to himself but vital to the world which he +fancied love obliterated.</p> + +<p>“For all these strenuous admirations of +beauty—what are they but the subterfuges by +which man hopefully conceals his lacking +egoism from himself? He admires the tints of +hair. His thought trembles before the curve +of a neck. Graceful images unravel in his +mind at the sight of a woman’s breasts. To +himself he declaims, ‘I am in love with her. +She is beautiful. I will take her beauty in my +arms. There is an emptiness in me that clamors +for the charm and mystery of this woman.’</p> + +<p><a name="png.061" id="png.061"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-five</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Accordingly he embraces her. There +is tenderness between them. Their bodies, +indeed, seem to have become overtones that +mate in a delicious and inaudible melody. But +this melody must be brought closer so that its +beauty may be more definitely enjoyed. This +melody must be played on instruments and not +on thin air.</p> + +<p>“And, selah! The egoist beautifying himself +with love, finds himself removing his +shoes, tearing off his underwear, fondling a +warm thigh and steering his phallus toward +its absurd destiny. The transvaluations—the +ineffable and inarticulate mysteries he fancied +himself embracing—turn out to be a +woman with her legs wrapped around him. +His desires for the infinite sate themselves in +the feeble tickle of orgasm. Cerberus seduced +from his Godhood by a dog biscuit!</p> + +<p>“As for those animals whose egoism has +never escaped their testicles, they are not to be +spoken of as men. Their imagination discharges +itself through their penis. They are +<a name="png.062" id="png.062"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>the husbands in the world I have destroyed. +They understand neither beauty nor disillusion. +The vagina is a door at which they +deliver regularly like industrious milkmen. +They are the sexual workmen to whom fornication +is as much a necessity as poverty is to +incompetents.</p> + +<p>“I alone have found the way in which to +love. I love and grow richer. I am mad. Yet +how admirable my madness is! My eyes and +senses are enslaved by a radiant phantom. As +I talk your outlines grow luminous. Your eyes +become like conquered Satans. They crawl +inside my brain like amorous spiders. Your +lips are the libretto of a dream. Your breasts +are little blind faces raised in prayer. Your +body flutters like a rich curtain before the door +of enchantments. I look within. Thus I possess +you and my senses without leaving themselves, +enter the infinity of my mind.”</p> + +<p>Mallare’s eyes closed. He remained rigid +in his chair. A murmur that Rita could no +<a name="png.063" id="png.063"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>longer hear came from his lips, as if voices +were speaking out of a depth.</p> + +<p>“Rita … Rita,” they said, “See, eyes +prowling like golden tigers. Cobra hands +playing over my soul. Mine … I walk with +you through gardens, deeper and endless.”</p> + +<p>The murmur ended. Rita, watching from +the couch, lay trembling. Warm tongues +spoke within her body. Her breasts tightened +until they felt impaled on their own nipples. +Her child’s mind was alive with impulses +driving her like slow whips. She would crawl +shivering to his feet. Her breasts would press +their pain against his knees. Desire like an impossible +anger filled her. She closed her eyes +and felt herself moving from the couch. She +would lie at his feet.</p> + +<p>Her hands reached out. Mallare regarded +her blankly for a moment. A wildness slowly +filled his eyes. He sprang up. Goliath crouching +in a corner of the dim room watched his +master raise the velveted figure in his hands +and fling it with a cry against the wall.</p> + +<p><a name="png.064" id="png.064"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-eight</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Fool!” he shouted. “Intruder!”</p> + +<p>Goliath cringed as his master rushed past +him to the door. He listened to his feet flying +down the stairs toward the night.</p> + +<p>Rita lay with her head hanging over the +couch. Her lips were opened. Her teeth +gleamed like little deaths. She lay motionless +as Mallare had flung her.</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">Goliath shuffled to the couch. His huge +black face stared over her closed eyes.</p> + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 58</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.067" id="png.067" href="images/drawing3a.png"><img + src="images/drawing3a-sml.png" width="462" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Third Drawing</p> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="png.069" id="png.069"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Fifty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[III]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><img class="initial" src="images/h.png" + width="142" height="200" alt="H" /><span class="start">e remembered</span> that he +had thrown the girl against +the wall and he paused. The +street was black. Great shadows +balanced themselves on +his eyes.</p> + +<p>“I have escaped from +myself,” he muttered.</p> + +<p>He stood trying to remember himself. But +his mind was like a night. Shapes tip-toed +through its dark. A hooded figure loomed in +his mind. It swung toward him as if it were +flying out of his eyes. Other figures swept by. +They assumed strange postures as they passed. +His thoughts regarded them tiredly. He +<a name="png.070" id="png.070"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>desired to join the figures fleeing out of him. +Then he would vanish with them.</p> + +<p>“I am too clever for that,” he murmured +aloud. “Yet it would be pleasing. To think in +dark, hooded figures; ah—they have adventures! +And I would sit like a night alive with +witches.”</p> + +<p>He stared with a smile at the street.</p> + +<p>“I no longer see or understand,” he whispered. +His hands felt his sides.</p> + +<p>“Yet here I am. There is a life within me +that I dare not enter. I must remember this. +Write ‘Forbidden’ over its black doors. To +succumb to my madness would be to lose it.”</p> + +<p>He resumed his walk.</p> + +<p>“She intruded,” he remembered. “Perhaps +I have killed her. That would be pleasant. +Except that she was necessary as an image. +I am the mirror and she is an image alive in +me. Her desire is a happy shadow I embrace.”</p> + +<p>Mallare’s eyes opened to the night.</p> + +<p><a name="png.071" id="png.071"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-one</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Strange,” he thought, “I see and yet what +I look at remains invisible. But tonight outlines +dance. The night is a maniac suffering +from ennui. His dark eyes are weary with the +emptiness they create. Vainly he searches for +life, his eyes devouring it, and leaving only his +own image for him to contemplate.</p> + +<p>“I am not so mad as that. Or I, too, would +sit like the night gorged with monotonous shadows. +Instead, I translate. A memory of sanity +gives diverting outline to the shadows in me. +I am not a maniac like the night. My mind +closes like a darkness over the world but I +enjoy myself walking amid insane houses, staring +at windows that look like drunken octagons, +observing lamp posts that simper with evil, +promenading fan shaped streets that scribble +themselves like arithmetic over my face.</p> + +<p>“These must be the things I look at. But +they are my improvement. The world is not so +outrageous if one is sufficiently mad to pull it +into taffy shapes and incredible scrawls.</p> + +<p><a name="png.072" id="png.072"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“But I must be warned. My madness +sought to avenge itself at her intrusion. It overcame +me with its anger. She was not content +to let me possess the beautiful image of her. +Although I have explained the thing to her +clearly. It is possible she does not understand. +I will talk to her again with greater lucidity. +I will tell her that I do not desire her except +as a dream for my mirror. But I have said that +to her.”</p> + +<p>Under the green-white sputter of a street +lamp, Mallare halted. His mind was preoccupied +with unraveling the mystery of Rita. He +stood, a tall figure without a hat, a slant of black +hair across his forehead, and ignoring eyes. +A beggar in a ragged overcoat shuffled, head +down, toward him.</p> + +<p>“She is only a child,” Mallare thought, +“but it is evident that passion already lifts her +breasts. Her simplicity is betrayed by incipient +orgasms prowling for an outlet. This, she fancies, +is love. It is fortunate she is a virgin. Still, +I must not rely too greatly on that. For virginity +is an insidious bed fellow for a maiden. +<a name="png.073" id="png.073"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>Forefingers and phallic shadows have ravished +her in dreams. And if she is a virgin in spirit +as well as body, she is still a woman—and therefore +dangerous.</p> + +<p>“Ah, what loathsome and lecherous mouths +women are! Offering their urine ducts as a +mystic Paradise! Stretching themselves on +their backs and seducing egoists with the unctuous +lie of possession. The mania for possession—that +most refined of all instincts—the +most heroic of insanities! How easily they circumvent +it! To desire is merely to love. But +to create in oneself the objects of desire—that +is to be mad and above life. Beyond it.</p> + +<p>“I must explain this to her. If she loves +me well enough she will understand. All things +are possible in love. I will explain to her that +I possess her at will without the loathsome +absurdities of sex.”</p> + +<p>The beggar paused and mumbled beside +Mallare. Watery, reddened eyes waited +patiently for the alms asked. Mallare had fallen +into silence. He stood regarding the beggar +<a name="png.074" id="png.074"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>intently. His thought labored for a moment, +scratching in silence at doors swinging slowly +shut. His thought withdrew and Mallare was +alone.</p> + +<p>He stood up tall and stern in a darkened +chamber. His eyes stared intently at the figure +of Rita. Her face, pale and alive, smiled +imploring in the mendicant’s place. He talked, +but the beggar, still patient, heard no sound.</p> + +<p>“You have followed me,” said Mallare +inside his chamber. “Very well. It is useless +to explain matters to you. You pursue me with +your lecherous body. I have warned you. Now +I will kill you. I will take your throat in my +hands and that will be an end of you. You will +fall down.”</p> + +<p>The beggar uttered a cry of terror. Mallare’s +hands had reached suddenly to his throat +and their fingers, like inviolable decisions, +closed on it. The ragged one screamed. A man +with a slant of black hair across his forehead +who had stood smiling at him had without +sound or warning reached out his hands to +<a name="png.075" id="png.075"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>murder him. The beggar gasped and writhed, +his eyes staring with horror into the immobile +face of his assailant. And within himself Mallare +continued the strange conversation.</p> + +<p>“You see how simple it is,” he said. “After +you are dead I will continue to enjoy for a time +the uninterrupted image of you. You will +haunt my thought until you grow dim. But I +will possess the vanishing shadow…. But +now you die.”</p> + +<p>Mallare tightened his hold on the beggar’s +neck and the man’s cries ended. His head fell +forward. Mallare held the dead figure erect, +shaking it gently and smiling at the one in his +thought.</p> + +<p>“Ah, Rita,” he whispered, “it is over now.”</p> + +<p>His hands released the throat they were +holding. The beggar fell to the ground. Mallare +stared at the body and then knelt beside +it. His hands passed over the dead face.</p> + +<p>“Poor Rita,” he continued. “No longer +dangerous.”</p> + +<p><a name="png.076" id="png.076"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-six</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>He bent over and kissed the matted hair +of the dead man.</p> + +<p>“Death,” he said aloud as he rose, “is an +easy friendship. You would have been sorry a +moment ago. But now you are neither sorry +nor glad. See, your body is a humble little +gratitude.”</p> + +<p>Mallare walked away. His thought, like +a cautious monitor, re-entered the doors that +had closed upon it.</p> + +<p>“Curious,” he said aloud, “she followed me +and I killed her. Madness is, alas, too logical. +I remember almost nothing of the incident. It +is a part of the shadows not of me. Still I know +it exists. My hands feel tired. But there is +nothing to regret. She came too close. And +now she lies dead in a strange street. They will +find her and perhaps ask me about it. What do +I know? Nothing. My memory is innocent. It +is after all my superior. I must remain, unquestioning, +at its side. This is a pact.”</p> + +<p>He returned to his home. The familiar +room greeted him like a friendship. He sat +<a name="png.077" id="png.077"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>down and closed his eyes. Goliath had gone to +bed. And she was no longer here.</p> + +<p>His hands felt tired. He was alone again. +But he would remember her. Eyes like conquered +Satans. They would crawl again like +spiders through his brain. Breasts like little +blind faces raised in prayer. Her body fluttering +like a rich curtain before the door of +enchantments. These were still his.</p> + +<p>“Tomorrow, Rita,” he murmured aloud to +his thoughts.</p> + +<p>A figure stirred on the couch. She had +watched him come in, his hair disheveled, his +body dragging. Her eyes had followed him as +he sat down. But she had waited motionless. +Perhaps he had come back to kill her. She lay +shivering. Then his voice called her name.</p> + +<p>Standing slowly, Rita waited. He was +asleep but he had called her. She moved cautiously +over the heavy carpet. Mallare opened +his eyes. He looked at the burning-eyed figure +of the girl his hands remembered having killed +in the strange street.</p> + +<p><a name="png.078" id="png.078"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-eight</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“A hallucination,” his thought muttered. +“But the dead do not come back.”</p> + +<p>The scene under the green-white street +lamp played its swift detail through his mind +again. He remembered the white throat, the +pale, imploring face. A shudder passed his +heart. He had murdered her. Yet here she +stood once more, looking at him.</p> + +<p>Mallare smiled.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he thought. “Mad, completely mad. +Yet it is not as unpleasant as I feared. Why, +indeed, am I startled? This is what I desired. +To create for myself out of myself. And here +my phantoms have become so rich and strong +that they confront me. I desired to be God. +And I have answered my own prayer. It is an +illusion. Its substance is only the life my madness +gives it. Yet I, who am the companion of +my madness, may enjoy it.”</p> + +<p>Rita shivered again as he laughed.</p> + +<p>“Come closer,” he whispered to her. “Or +are you too timorous a hallucination, Rita? +<a name="png.079" id="png.079"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Sixty-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>Come closer and let me see. What a curious +sensation! To caress the figures of my madness! +Then there is no longer any sanity in me. For +my fingers are aware of hair. Ah, dear child, +Mallare is completely mad since at last his +senses betray him. But they betray him sweetly. +For though I babble to myself you have no +existence, though I smile at the thought of +caressing a phantom, my senses derive a mysterious +pleasure from this contact with nothingness. +Curious … curious … come +closer, Rita. Now smile at me. Yes, your lips +move. You are an automaton born of my words. +Give me your hand. It is warm and trembling. +Ah, my phantom is in love with me. But that +love, too, is an illusion I create. No, do not +come too close. Let me grow accustomed first +to my madness. You are happy, eh? How marvelous +your eyes! They were beautiful before +when they crawled like round spiders through +my brain. But elusive. They fled from me, +my madness pursuing them into dark, empty +corners.</p> + +<p><a name="png.080" id="png.080"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“But now I have grown cleverer. It is +necessary to be superbly clever in order to fool +one’s senses like this. But take off your clothes, +little one. I want to see how clever I am. Has +my phantom a body, too, or is it only a face and +an illusion of fabric I have created? Your velvet +dress, Rita, take it off. Ah, what a virginal +phantom.”</p> + +<p>Rita, trembling before the gleam of the +eyes that had opened to her, listened anxiously. +An ecstasy drifted like a cloud over her senses. +He had touched her. His hands had passed +over her head as she had dreamed they might. +His eyes were smiling with intimacy at her +face. But he had warned her never to speak. +She must not spoil it by speaking. She stood +swaying before him.</p> + +<p>“Your velvet dress,” he repeated.</p> + +<p>Her hands reached dreamily to her body. +He would see now how beautiful she was. The +men in the caravan had called her beautiful. +But she had run from them. That was long +ago. Now she would show him how the skin +<a name="png.081" id="png.081"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>of her body looked, how her breasts made pretty +curves, and how she had washed herself in the +perfumes he had given her.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” murmured Mallare, his eyes filling +with wonder. “How incredibly clever my madness +has become! My little phantom undresses. +Illusion—yet my conveniently stupid senses are +deceived. But what delicious deception! See, +her throat and breasts are white. Her body is +white. I may reach out and touch the flesh of +her thighs. I am as indecent as God for I have +given her sex. But what a plagiarist I am! My +phantom is as charming and naive as an art +student’s copy. Still, she is not a woman and +therefore not hateful. Without life, even this +may be considered entertaining.”</p> + +<p>His hands moved cautiously over her body, +his fingers slipping experimentally over the +flesh of her buttocks and thighs.</p> + +<p>“Interesting,” he smiled. “Like St. +Anthony I create <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'obalisques'">odalisques</ins> for my seduction. +Ah, but there is a difference. This is mine … +mine!”</p> + +<p><a name="png.082" id="png.082"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>His eyes gleamed with a quick frenzy at +the naked figure.</p> + +<p>“Speak. I desire you to speak, little one. +If I can believe in the illusion of flesh and eager +eyes, then I can believe in the illusion of sound. +Come speak. I am at the mercy of my madness. +If you speak to me, little one, I will understand. +My stupid senses that retain their earthly +logic will be ravished at the sound of your voice. +But I will chuckle at my cleverness. Tell me, +are you mine? Can you say, ‘I am yours’? Can +you give yourself to me and deceive me with +the beautiful illusion of submission? Tell me. +Speak to me.”</p> + +<p>Her eyes burning toward him, Rita nodded +her head.</p> + +<p>“Yours,” she whispered. “Whatever you +say, I am.”</p> + +<p>“Clever, clever,” Mallare muttered, “it +speaks to me and I hear. It says ‘yours.’ I +become too involved. Or perhaps this is only +a dream. Of course, what else can it be? Part +of me has fallen asleep and is dreaming. And +<a name="png.083" id="png.083"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>because I am mad I fancy myself awake. And +my senses obey me. Desire whispers to them, +‘Hear voices. See flesh. Feel desire,’ and like +five little awkward masochists they prostrate +themselves before my madness.</p> + +<p>“But my senses are of no great interest. +There is this other—this mania of possession of +which passion, compounded of all the senses, is +but an unimportant fragment. I am a man with +a woman inside him. I possess the secret of the +hermaphroditic Gods. I am complete.”</p> + +<p>Rita kneeled beside him and his hands +stroked her black hair. Her face remained +raised in adoration. Mallare, observing her +eyes, nodded satisfactions at them.</p> + +<p>“Who but Mallare could have done this?” +he whispered aloud to her. “Mallare, infatuated +with himself, desires still a further adoration. +So he creates infatuated phantoms. I am +tired now. My hands are tired. Return, little +one, to the couch of my madness and sleep for +a time in its shadows.“</p> + +<p><a name="png.084" id="png.084"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-four</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>Mallare shut his eyes and his hands +dropped to his side. Rita arose and smiled at +him. He had spoken strangely, but his words +were no longer mysteries since he had caressed +her. She would lie now at his feet as she had +dreamed of doing. She stretched herself out +on the thick carpet.</p> + +<p>Her childish mind fondled its unexpected +memories. He had looked at her body and +spoken beautiful words to it. She remembered +the talk of the old ones of the caravan. A +woman belongs to a man. This meant that she +belonged to him. She had said, “Yours.”</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">Her face smiled itself to sleep.</p> + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 74</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.087" id="png.087" href="images/drawing4a.png"><img + src="images/drawing4a-sml.png" width="437" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Fourth Drawing</p> +</div> + + + + +<h2><a name="png.089" id="png.089"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-five</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[IV]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><i><img class="initial" src="images/f.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="F" /><span class="start">rom</span> the Journal of Mallare +dated November.</i></p> + +<p class="top2">“I no longer understand +myself. My thoughts stretch +themselves into baffling elasticities. +My brain is a labyrinth +through which reason +searches in vain for itself. I walk cautiously. +Yet I am lost.</p> + +<p>“To think has become like adding a continually +increasing column of figures. I sit and +add. The figures will add up into a finite sum +and this sum will be the understanding of +myself. I apply myself carefully to each figure +<a name="png.090" id="png.090"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>and say, ‘two and three are five. Five and +seven are twelve.’ But as I reach what seems +an end I find more figures waiting me.</p> + +<p>“I can no longer add up the fragments or +interpret them. I must be content now to sit +and wait until this part of me—my relation to +myself—splinters into fragments and I become +a dice box shaking with mysterious and invisible +combinations.</p> + +<p>“It is the phantom Rita that is threatening +to drive me into darkness. Since I murdered +her in the street, the hallucination has become +overwhelming. It is with me almost continually. +When I open my eyes from sleep I find +it waiting at my bed. The hallucination leaves +me when I am outside, although at times a trace +of it returns and I seem more to feel its presence +within me than behold it with my senses.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am clinging desperately to these +moments of objectivity which enable me to +write. But even they threaten to betray me. For +as I write doubts dance like macabre figures +among my words. The very sentences seem to +<a name="png.091" id="png.091"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>stretch themselves into ridiculous postures. +And I must almost close my eyes and stumble +blindly through a storm of denouements.</p> + +<p>“I desired to create for myself a world +within which I might love and hate—to be a +God lost within his dream. Madness was necessary, +so I embraced it. But my dream becomes +the product of a Frankenstein. She—the hallucination—is +more real to my senses than am +I. And I can no longer control her. My senses +are unfaithful to me. They philander clownishly +with this mirage of my thought. Then +what is there left? I. This grim figure stumbling +with his head down through a storm of +denouements. I persist—an unwelcome visitor, +a bargain-hunting tourist in Bedlam. I remain.</p> + +<p>“But it is a boast that laughs back at me. +For I will soon be a little plaything of my +phantom. Last night I walked until I thought +I had rid myself. Her eyes alone lingered. Her +hands moved like slow dancers. But I walked +and said to myself, ‘I am tired of nonsense. I +am tired of this monotonous hallucination. At +<a name="png.092" id="png.092"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>least let me be unfaithful to my dream since I +am the God who created it.’</p> + +<p>“I walked to the street where a month ago +she had followed me under the arc lamp. It +was cold and I grew tired. I came back to sleep. +‘Gone, she is gone,’ I whispered to myself. The +room appeared empty. I was cautious, knowing +the ruses of this thing in my mind. For my +madness and I are no longer friends. My madness +hides for me and plays tricks.</p> + +<p>“But she returned. I smiled at her. It is +folly to grow angry with one’s own hallucinations. +That would be a double madness. As +she stood before me, my treacherous senses +leaped to their sterile feast. And I smiled.</p> + +<p>“‘My egoism has betrayed me,’ I reasoned. +‘The love that gleams from the eyes of +this hallucination is the invention of my egoism. +Alas, I love myself too much, for the +passion for Mallare with which my madness +endows this illusion of a woman, threatens me. +My senses have already abandoned me. They +no longer obey the direction of my will. And +<a name="png.093" id="png.093"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Seventy-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>I must stand like a scold, laughing and sneering +at them as they yield themselves to her. +She is more powerful, therefore, than I, even +though her existence is no more than a shadow +cast in front of my eyes.’</p> + +<p>“I reasoned in this fashion and continued +to smile. It would be best, perhaps, to humor +her. Who knows but even hallucinations are +subject to wiles and coquetry. A disturbing +fancy, this—one of the distortions that insist +upon raising their mocking heads from the +midst of my cautious sentences.</p> + +<p>“She came and knelt beside me and I +shook my head at her. She was dressed in a +gown I had never seen before. It was red. I +spoke aloud and said—</p> + +<p>“‘See, how abominably clever I am. My +madness is a jack of all trades. It makes new +dresses for its phantoms. It arranges their +coiffures. It even puts rouge on their <ins class="TN" title="Transcribers' note: + original paragraph ends with a superfluous double quote">cheeks.’</ins></p> + +<p>“But as I talked her hands reached out to +me. To look into her eyes that are always alive +with flames is to succumb. For then I find +<a name="png.094" id="png.094"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>myself dreaming my dream is not a dream. +My senses clamor that I join them.</p> + +<p>“‘Forget. Forget,’ they whisper, ‘come +with us.’</p> + +<p>“But I chose to persist. I remain. To sit +in an empty whorehouse and masturbate…. +No! If this hallucination grows powerful +enough to trick my senses into clownish fornications, +let my madness enjoy them. Not I. +We are no longer friends, my madness and I.</p> + +<p>“She pressed her cheek against my leg. I +could feel her body trembling.</p> + +<p>“I remained motionless and spoke to her. +‘Each night you grow bolder,’ I said. I am no +different from other Gods in that I seem to +have endowed you with the instinct of profanation. +But at least Eve did not turn on +Jehovah with the whore tricks learned from +His apple. There is consolation, however, in +the fact that I, too, can remain indifferent. +Indifference is the wisdom of God.</p> + +<p>“‘You may play with me. Yet I know +that the burn of your hand on my body is an +<a name="png.095" id="png.095"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>absurdity, of interest only to my idiot senses. +My arms reach out to embrace you. Your +breasts surprise my fingers. Come, sit in my +lap if you wish. No, I would rather enjoy you +as before—standing before me naked. Take off +your clothes.’</p> + +<p>“While I talked she clung to me. Her lips +passed kisses over my face. I continued, however, +to observe; to remain a spectator. She +removed her clothes, tearing them from her +body and laughing. And standing before me +naked but for her black silk stockings and red +slippers, she held out her arms. But I shook +my head and smiled.</p> + +<p>“‘I am the victim of an overwhelming +desire to masturbate,’ I said to her, ‘since I find +it difficult to resist you. But if I yield to the +mysterious reality you have assumed I will +become too grotesque for my vanity to tolerate. +I will remain aware while possessing you that +my penis is beating a ludicrous tattoo on a +sofa cushion. I choose rather to emulate the +pride of St. Anthony, who shrewdly refused to +play the whoremonger with shadows.’</p> + +<p><a name="png.096" id="png.096"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“I smiled at her and she laughed. She +crouched on her feet staring up at me. Raising +my eyes from her, I saw Goliath. He was standing +in the curtains of his room, watching me +with a curious, open-mouthed fury. I saw that +the little monster was beginning to understand +that I was mad, and this irritated me. There +was danger in him, since even through his +stupid head must have passed a wonder of what +had happened to Rita.</p> + +<p>“I frowned at Goliath and his head rolled +frightenedly on his heavy shoulders.</p> + +<p>“‘Why do you bother me when I wish +to be alone?’ I cried. ‘Go to your bed and +leave me.’</p> + +<p>“I stood up and went for him. His head +fell and he dragged himself back into his room. +This was, perhaps, the most curious thing in +the incident. ‘I am ashamed of being seen with +this nude phantom,’ I thought. For a moment +the mad idea came to me that she was visible to +Goliath—that he was watching us—me and +this figment of mine. My anger was shame. +<a name="png.097" id="png.097"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>My senses are logical in their pretenses. How +can I stand out against them, if they grow +cleverer than I, more persuasive than I, and +lead me finally into the total madness of accepting +them as Mallare—the one Mallare, the +lunatic who has escaped himself? I must not +escape.</p> + +<p>“When I returned she was still crouching +on the floor. I decided to experiment. Perhaps +there was still some lingering sense in me that +would fail to succumb to this astonishing +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'makebelieve'">make-believe</ins>.</p> + +<p>“‘Come here. On the couch,’ I ordered her.</p> + +<p>“She obeyed. She stretched herself out +and I sat beside her. The odor of her body was +distinct. Perfumes spread a clever gloss over +the woman smell, the bitter salt odor that stirred +from between her closed thighs. I smiled, for +the logic of this illusion grows entertaining. +But I had decided on experiments. My hands +stroked her hair, feeling of its strands. My +fingers pressed at the skull beneath the warm +skin of her head. Then I held her breasts, that +<a name="png.098" id="png.098"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>had once seemed to me like two little blind +faces raised in prayer. But imagery no longer +decorates my thought. My hallucination is no +longer a weaver of magical phrases. But stark, +real—its heart beating under ribs, its skin +glowing with perspiration, its nipples standing +out. As I caressed her I heard her say:</p> + +<p>“‘Yours. Yours. I am your woman.’</p> + +<p>“Her thighs opened and her arms that had +been held toward me fell to her sides. My +hand slipped between. There was warm flesh. +Yes, it was flesh to my mind. And I sat for +moments allowing the illusion to stir a passion +in me. I would throw myself on this thing, +hold it in my arms, give myself to it. Where +was the wrong in that, since it was only myself +I ravished—a phantom mocking me behind +my eyes?</p> + +<p>“Goliath saved me. I saw him standing +once more in the curtains of his room. His +long arms were beating against his sides, the +black fingers opening and shutting like frantic +talons. He stood with his head rolling as if he +<a name="png.099" id="png.099"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>were trying to stand erect. His eyes were +insane.</p> + +<p>“I sprang away, again pulled by the unmistakable +emotion of shame. He glared at me +for a moment, but as my hand caught his face +he toppled over and lay whining. I picked +him up and threw him into his bed and locked +the door of his room.</p> + +<p>“When I returned she still lay. Her eyes +were closed. She looked at me and I saw she +was weeping.</p> + +<p>“‘Since you are not to be reasoned out of +existence, since you seem to resist what is left +of my sanity—there is nothing to do but tolerate +you.’</p> + +<p>“I sat in my chair and spoke to her.</p> + +<p>“‘It will end in my loathing you,’ I said. +‘I created you in order to possess you beyond +the realism of the senses. For a time your body +was like a rich curtain before the door of +enchantments which I might enter at will.</p> + +<p>“‘But there is no longer a door. Your body +alone confronts me. In this way I am reduced +<a name="png.100" id="png.100"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to enjoying my dream with my senses. Then it +means only that I have achieved nothing more +by my madness than the privilege of masturbating +with the aid of an erotic phantom.</p> + +<p>“‘Alas, the reason of it is clear. Man’s +fiber is fouled throughout with sex. I sought +to emancipate myself from all relation to life. +The delusion of my hopes is more to be pitied +than the disorder of my vanity. For I see now +that man is a collection of adjectives loaned to a +phallus. His intellect is no more than a diverting +hiatus between fornications. His soul, yes, +his very egoism on which he prides himself, is +a synthetic erection.</p> + +<p>“‘To possess! What a delusion! And for +its sake I threw my genius away. I stripped the +world from my eyes that it might not intrude +upon the universe within me. A paradise in +which I might strut alone. Possess myself. Yes, +and here I am, aware at last of folly. For my +senses belong to life. And though I buried +myself in a madness deeper than night, they +would still cling to me. Though I castrated +<a name="png.101" id="png.101"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>myself, they would remain—five invisible testicles. +It is impossible to possess. Folly to +attempt. As long as the senses remain life clings +like a dead whore to my darkness. Even my +madness that I prided myself upon is a babbling +witch astride a phallus, her lips bending +over it with grewsome hungers.</p> + +<p>“‘There is only one castration—death. +What am I now? Mad? Yes. And worse. +Disillusioned. I have closeted myself with a +lecherous animal and it turns on me. That is +the reward of the privacy I hungered after.</p> + +<p>“‘And you who lie and weep on a couch +are no longer the dream of a God, but the crude +marionette created by lust for its own diversion. +I thought only to go mad. But I see I +have become an idiot.’</p> + +<p>“There was no more to say. Her weeping +ended and she vanished. But she will return. +In my sleep her outline wanders like an amorous +ghost haunting the grave of my senses. Ah, +I must be cautious now, more cautious, always +cautious. It would be too easy to yield. And if +<a name="png.102" id="png.102"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>I yielded and returned again my defeat would +be unbearable. I think it is easier to die. Death +is no more than a premature torment. Its name +alone is a suffering. Its reality but a final +illusion.</p> + +<p>“But I persist. I still remain. There is a +rhythm to things that still seduces me. A gentle +curiosity that gives the lie to my bewilderment. +I sit, an audience, shedding crocodile tears at +a melodrama.</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">“Tomorrow … tomorrow. Who can +think that word is still himself? What difference +does it make if I grow uncomfortable and +swollen with illusions? I persist. And who +knows but tomorrow will be a door in my labyrinth … +a bottom to this pit into which I +have fallen?”</p> + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 88</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.105" id="png.105" href="images/drawing5a.png"><img + src="images/drawing5a-sml.png" width="550" height="348" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Fifth Drawing</p> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="png.107" id="png.107"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Eighty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[V]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><i><img class="initial" src="images/f.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="F" /><span class="start">rom</span> the Journal of Mallare +dated December.</i></p> + + +<p class="top2">“Her murder was simple. +We stood under an arc +lamp and my hands killed +her. I remember her face +looking imploringly at me. +And when I went away I leaned over and +kissed her hair. She was dead in the street. It +was simple.</p> + +<p>“Now I must kill again. It is no longer +simple. I must teach her to hate me. She will +vanish then. It is clear in my thought. My +hands are useless against her now. I have held +them about her neck and she laughs.</p> + +<p><a name="png.108" id="png.108"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“All day she runs around in the room. At +night she comes to my bed. Her hands wake +me up. She plays with me. I lie thinking how +she may be murdered this second time. She +has grown loathsome. I allow her to cover my +body with kisses and listen to her laughter. +Pollutions result. I am powerless against her +lips and terrible fingers. She devours me night +after night like a succubus. I lie and masturbate +with a phantom.</p> + +<p>“But I will discover a way to kill this +thing. I close my eyes and lie powerless while +she repeats the refrain I once taught her. +‘Yours … yours. I am your woman.’</p> + +<p>“I have hurled her out of bed, hurled her +body against the wall. She continues to laugh +like a child. I think of her as real. Goliath +knows I am mad. He watches me while I struggle +with this thing. He is filled with terror. I +have told him to go, but he remains.</p> + +<p>“She sleeps in the bed that Rita used. I +have seen her there. Stood beside her listening +to her breathe. If I die she will pursue me in +<a name="png.109" id="png.109"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>death. She is more real than I. I must kill her. +My hands have never touched her since the +night on the couch. I have kept myself intact. +I still remain. She is a virgin. My thought is +mad. It plays with the idea of fornication. +Once, screams frightened her out of my bed. I +lay unable to resist. My body reached toward +her. An anger that was like death blinded me. +I cried out and saved myself. My thought crept +back from the madness. I called myself back.</p> + +<p>“I can no longer close my eyes to her. She +grimaces in the dark. And she is at my heels in +the street. I have decided there is a way to rid +myself of her.</p> + +<p>“Mallare … Mallare is no more. Madness +jostles him off the scene. He annihilated +a world and a new monster sprang up in its +place.</p> + +<p>“My words return. Ah, tired warriors +covered with the grime of battle—they troop +back to my mind out of the dark. Mallare +returns. But what a caricature! See him like +a fanatic priest driving the devil out of his +soul with whips.</p> + +<p><a name="png.110" id="png.110"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“This would be a God, this hermaphroditic +prostitute who fondles himself at night. Mallare +… weep. Whips will not rid you of +this monster. Mallare, the plaything.</p> + +<p>“But there is a way to be rid of her. Hate +will darken the gleam of her body. She will +vanish. But do I hate her? My madness is +infatuated since it makes her so radiant. And +who am I that I laugh at my madness? It is I +who am insane. Not this other Eden maker +whose mania I applauded. I, Mallare, tear at +my hair.</p> + +<p>“I look in the mirror over my bed. Eyes +red and gleaming look back at me. This is my +face, but I am no longer there. And whose are +these eyes looking back at me? The eyes of +Mallare’s friend, red and gleaming. His friend +who betrayed him. Hair slanting over a forehead. +Mouth wide and thin. No longer mine. +They belong to the mirror. Mallare’s words +whimper before them.</p> + +<p>“Weep … weep, impotent one. The +feet of your madness walk solemnly over you. +<a name="png.111" id="png.111"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>They kick gravely at a carcass. Lie beneath +them and watch Mallare dance away, whirl +away with lecherous shadows in his arms. But +she will die too. I am thinking of death. Mallare +the egoist asks alms of death!</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">“Windows break inside me. I look out of +broken windows. I am gone and away. Empty +rooms. My hands feel walls. Mallare asks pity +of darkness. Pity him.”</p> + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 94</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.115" id="png.115" href="images/drawing6a.png"><img + src="images/drawing6a-sml.png" width="459" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Sixth Drawing</p> +</div> + + + +<h2><a name="png.117" id="png.117"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-five</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[VI]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><img class="initial" src="images/s.png" + width="142" height="200" alt="S" /><span class="start">he</span> sat looking out of the +window. He had gone away +early in the morning. It was +growing dark now. The +cold street dwindled. Windows +lighted up. People +that looked from the distance +like black toys moved +through the darkening street.</p> + +<p>She could tell when he came because his +walk was different. The hours built pointed +roofs to her dream. She played behind happy +walls but her eyes remained outside, watching +from the window.</p> + +<p>This was part of a game—to hide away +and wait. To put on her clothes carefully in +<a name="png.118" id="png.118"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>the morning; bright silks and petticoats and a +dress on top; jewels on her fingers; bracelets +and earrings; gold bands through her hair. To +make her cheeks red and paint black lines in +her eyes; then paint her lips and fingers red—these +things hid her. She must be hidden when +he came—concealed behind paints and clothes +so that when he looked at her it would be someone +else he saw.</p> + +<p>A tall man with black hair. His face was +white. His eyes were silent and hidden. But +when they looked at her they screeched like +parrots. They ruffled up and yellow points +came into them.</p> + +<p>He liked to walk up and down pretending +she was nowhere, pretending there was no Rita, +pretending he was looking for her. Then she +ran around and one by one she took off the +things—the dress, the petticoats, the silks, the +jewels and bracelets and gold bands. Each one +she took off was for him. It was a game. She +came out of hiding places. Each one she took +off was a secret she confessed to him.</p> + +<p><a name="png.119" id="png.119"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>She sat at the window dreaming of the +ways she belonged to him. Her thought was a +pantomime which prostrated itself before his +memory. She remembered sacrifices…. He +would lie cold in his bed. Then she crawled to +his side. She dared not look at his eyes. They +were above her and kept themselves hidden. +She vanished before the thought of them.</p> + +<p>Then his body grew warm under her +hands. Her lips made his body tremble. He +was white and naked like her. He was a fire +to which she fed herself. The moment came +when there was no longer any Rita. A little +ember lay burning happily in his passion.</p> + +<p>When he fell asleep she went away. In her +own bed she lay dreaming words that were like +hiding places. Only he could lure her out of +them. After he fell asleep she carried memories +of him into herself…. He had smiled. +His body had shivered. His fingers had clutched +at her face. He had picked her up and fought +with her. When he did this it was as if he lifted +her to his eyes and she could look at him—as if +the wind lifted the flames about.</p> + +<p><a name="png.120" id="png.120"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-eight</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>The street was dark. But he would come +soon. He only stayed away till it grew dark. +Now it was his time again. The street and all +the lights would open the door and come into +the room. And she would be waiting, hidden +away. It was exciting to wait. It was the +way he kissed her—by making her wait and +pretending when he came that there was no +Rita.</p> + +<p>The night was like a story that frightened. +As she watched from the window she remembered +the caravan along the roads. Fires and +dark faces and red handkerchiefs. The night +along the roads changed the trees into birds that +flew away. The wagons went to sleep. Everyone +slept but Rita. The horses had dreams and +whispered to themselves.</p> + +<p>Along the roads where the caravan stopped +there would be a fire at night to watch. Rita +sat alone looking at the flames. Dreams came +out of the fire and walked away. Then, hours +afterward, they came back when the fire was +low. They stood around the coals and finally +crawled into the ground. Darkness remained. +<a name="png.121" id="png.121"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">Ninety-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>The wagons became ghosts. She grew sad and +wanted to go away with the night like the +dreams that crept back into the dead fire.</p> + +<p>Now his eyes were like the hiding places +she had wished. She trembled. He was coming. +She could see him out of the window, +walking slowly in the street below. She closed +her eyes.</p> + +<p>The door opened and her heart bowed +itself. Her fingers, stiffened with colored rings, +pressed at her breasts. Now there was a game +to play. He walked up and down pretending +Rita was hidden. He was cold and far away. +His face walked like a dead man back and +forth in the room. Goliath shuffled as fast as +he could and hid himself in the curtains. She +crouched in the chair, her knees drawn up, her +eyes cringing with delight.</p> + +<p>She could watch his face. When he was +far away she had further to go to reach him, +and each step was like a kiss she gave him. His +anger, his words, his cold face and his hands +<a name="png.122" id="png.122"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred</span><span class="ns">] + </span>striking her were wild roads down which she +ran toward a fire that waited.</p> + +<p>He paid no attention but walked up and +down and his eyes ignored her. But he would +begin to talk soon. She would undress for him. +One by one, rings, bands of gold, silks and petticoats—each +that came off was like a part of her +already burning.</p> + +<p>She stood up naked. Only she was left +now. Her body caressed her with its desires. +She must go on undressing. There was something +more to give him. She would remove +something of herself—her arms, her breasts, +her white thighs. She gave these to him with +her dresses and jewels. They were things for +him to burn up.</p> + +<p>He was looking at her because she had +crawled to his feet. This was when he began to +talk to her—when she placed her arms around +his feet and bent her head to the floor.</p> + +<p>“Yours,” she whispered.</p> + +<p>He was motionless and far away and tall +above her. He stood like the night. His white +<a name="png.123" id="png.123"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred One</span><span class="ns">] + </span>face was the cold moon. She waited and heard +the wind blow against the windows. She waited +for him to grow warm.</p> + +<p>His hands lifted her up. He held them +around her neck, his fingers tightening. She +opened her eyes and loved him. He talked to +her. She listened and wished to die in his hands, +if he desired her, if it would make his eyes +smile at her.</p> + +<p>But his fingers loosened and he threw her +down. She lay smiling on the floor as he walked +away. He went on talking, louder and louder. +His voice was like a sword swinging. He was +angry. His words were soft and quick.</p> + +<p>She looked up only when he laughed. He +was standing against the red curtains laughing. +His finger was pointing to her. He stood +watching her with his eyes screeching like parrots +and laughing as he pointed.</p> + +<p>Kneeling, she covered her face with her +hands. His laughter came nearer. His hands +began to strike. Pain leaped to greet them. +Pain, like wings, raised her body to his eyes. +<a name="png.124" id="png.124"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>His hands were striking and tearing. They +played a game with her body.</p> + +<p>Candles lighted in her head. He was +laughing and throwing himself against her. +She felt blood come out of her and cover her +with little flames. But he would let her come +close soon. After he had struck her and become +like a fire she would crawl close to him and he +would let her give herself, what was left of +herself.</p> + +<p>His hands knocked her down again and +she lay without moving. He was still laughing +and pulling at her. She kneeled and covered +her face. Her head kept nodding at him.</p> + +<p>Now she would die. He would devour her. +Her body fell and rose as if he were swinging +her around his head. His hands drove nails +through her breasts. Her voice ran away from +her and screamed. But she continued to nod +her head and to come toward him out of the +hiding places. His blows were binding her +body with red ropes. But soon she would lie +against him and give herself to his passion. +<a name="png.125" id="png.125"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>She would feel his body burning from the +blows he had given her. She closed her eyes +and screamed. He grew larger and she was no +longer able to understand the pain….</p> + +<p>When she awoke Goliath was bending +over her. He was whispering excitedly. Sunlight +made red shadows in the room.</p> + +<p>“Where is he?” she asked.</p> + +<p>She slid to the floor and then stood up carefully. +Pain halted her and she moaned. But +her eyes continued to hunt the room.</p> + +<p>“Where is he?” she asked again.</p> + +<p>Goliath watched her and his head rolled +excitedly. She straightened and dragged herself +to the door of his room. It was empty.</p> + +<p>“Mallare,” she cried. Her hands beat +against her head, “Mallare.”</p> + +<p>Goliath remained watching her naked +figure stumbling through the rooms as she +called the name. She returned to the couch +and threw herself face down. She lay moaning +and tearing the cushions with her fingers.</p> + +<p><a name="png.126" id="png.126"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Four</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>He had gone away. He had beaten her +not because he loved. He hated her. And he +had taken himself away from her. She understood. +He no longer wanted her. He had +laughed and tried to kill her.</p> + +<p>With a scream she rushed into his bedroom +and threw herself against the unused +pillows. Her arms struck at them. She began +to talk aloud in the language she knew.</p> + +<p>“Gone away, gone away,” she cried. “I +am yours and you gone away.”</p> + +<p>But words were too involved. She beat at +the pillows and screamed. When he came back +she would kill him. While he sat in his chair +writing she would creep close and drive a +knife. That was what would happen to him +because he no longer loved her and because he +had beaten her to say goodbye.</p> + +<p>It was day outside. When it grew dark +again he would come back. She would wait, +but not as before. She was no longer his.</p> + +<p>In her room Rita bathed herself and +searched for her old clothes. She found them +<a name="png.127" id="png.127"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>hidden—the wide dress with red and yellow +stripes, the many blue and scarlet petticoats +that she had worn when he brought her home +from the caravan; the long black earrings, the +green and orange shawl for her head. She put +these on. They hid the vivid marks on her body.</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">Dressed in her gypsy clothes she came into +the room again. It would be long to wait. But +darkness would come and then he would open +the door again. She lay down on the couch +and sighed.</p> + + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 106</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.131" id="png.131" href="images/drawing7a.png"><img + src="images/drawing7a-sml.png" width="550" height="342" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Seventh Drawing</p> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="png.133" id="png.133"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[VII]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><img class="initial" src="images/m.png" + width="144" height="200" alt="M" /><span class="start">allare</span>, wrapped in a +heavy overcoat, his hands in +thick gloves, walked from +his door into the street. The +cold straightened him. The +deserted night mirrored +itself in a thin coating of +snow that overlay the roof-tops.</p> + +<p>“They sleep,” he thought. His head bent +toward the wind. “The streets are empty. The +night is mine. I must think of what has happened. +There is something inexplicable in +what has happened. My hands fought with a +phantom. That, of course, is nonsense.</p> + +<p>“How do I know my hands fought? +Merely because I remember them striking. +<a name="png.134" id="png.134"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>Yet that may have been an illusion too! Then +why are my hands tired? Why do my arms +ache? Another illusion, of course. Logic is +independent of truth. Logic is the persuasive +repetition of ideas by which man hypnotizes +himself. I must beware of logic. It will but +tie me hopelessly to hallucination. I must +think without evidence. I do not know anything. +What I see, hear, smell, touch is nothing. +I can no longer summon my senses as witnesses.</p> + +<p>“And is that unusual? I must sink to +moralizings in order to understand myself. +What is reality but the habit of illusion. Man +sees the unexpected once and identifies it as +hallucination. He sees it twice and calls it phenomenon. +But if he acquired the habit of seeing +the unexpected, he accepts it as reality.</p> + +<p>“In the same manner in which he builds +phantoms into furniture, converts his Gods +into sciences, his myths into laws; in that way +he also reduces his furniture into phantoms. He +converts his emotions into music, his nervous +disorders into literature, his three elemental +<a name="png.135" id="png.135"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>desires into thought. He is continually holding +a mirror to nature and worshipping the +childish phantoms within the mirror.</p> + +<p>“This is the basis of egoism—the mania +to change realities into unreality. Because +man is the tool of reality. Of unreality he is +the God. It is this desire to dominate which +inspires him to avoid truths over which he has +no sway and to invent myths. Gods and virtues +over which he may set himself up as creator +and policeman. It is this which causes him to +cloud the simplicities of nature in a maze of +interpretations. It is by his interpretations that +he achieves the illusion of importance. Ignored +by the planets, he invents the myth of mathematics +and reduces the universe to a succession +of fractions and Greek letters on a blackboard.</p> + +<p>“This, of course, for man the egoist. The +more humorous spectacle is the one in which +man finds himself awed by his own lies. His +Gods, his myths, his phantoms come home to +roost. He stands blinking in a veritable storm +of lies. His yesterday’s lies, his today’s lies, his +tomorrow’s lies—all his obsolete interpretations, +<a name="png.136" id="png.136"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Ten</span><span class="ns">] + </span>his canonized interpretations; all his systems, +his philosophies; all his Gods and Phantoms—these +riot and war around him. Error +endlessly assassinates itself in a futile effort to +escape its immortality.</p> + +<p>“And in the midst of this horrendous confusion, +stands man—naive and powerless. But +he has his sanity. He blows it up carefully like +a soap bubble and strikes a defiant posture in +its center. And against the walls of his bubble, +his phantoms storm in vain. Within his bubble +he proceeds calmly to assert himself.”</p> + +<p>It was snowing. The night, white with +snow, stared like a blind man. A phantom +world hung in the air. Houses and street withdrew +silently. The snow covered them. Mallare +walked on, staring into the heavy weave +of flakes.</p> + +<p>“A great white leopard prowling silently,” +he murmured. “It snows. The moon has come +down and walks beside me. The wind blows +and the moon gallops away on a white horse. +A gentle annihilation. The night has fallen +<a name="png.137" id="png.137"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Eleven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>asleep and this is a dream that pirouettes in its +head. The street becomes a bridal couch.</p> + +<p>“Ah, the snow is like my madness. It +snows, snows. I climb silently among soft +branches and white leaves. Delirium sleeps +with a finger to its pale lips. I must continue +to think. The storm hangs like a forgotten sorrow +in my heart. But my thought persists. It +crawls like a little wind through the forgotten +storm. It rides carefully from flake to flake.</p> + +<p>“I overtake myself. What a quaint imbecile +I am. Or rather, was. In my effort to +emancipate myself from life, I succeeded only +in handing myself over to my senses. And my +senses, I perceive, belong not to me but to the +procreative principles of biology. They have +been loaned to me by a master chemist. When +I die my cherished soul will disintegrate into +nothing. It will become a useless thing. It will +unquestionably go to a Heaven which is as non-existent +as itself. Heaven is the emptiness into +which souls vanish. Very good. But my senses, +these are immortal. They will, in some inexplicable +<a name="png.138" id="png.138"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twelve</span><span class="ns">] + </span>way, I am certain, continue their idiot +career.</p> + +<p>“I must consider them. I have learned +one thing. They are indifferent to reality and +unreality. They contain life within themselves. +All that exists outside them is extraneous—shadows +among which they divert themselves.</p> + +<p>“The hallucination that overpowered me +but never seduced my intelligence became a +reality to them. She was a shadow with which +my senses diverted themselves. Then why do +I look upon the business as illogical? The +illogical thing is not that I feel tired from striking +her who had no tangible existence, but that +I should be able to reason beyond the reach of +my senses. Yes, that I should succeed in wresting +them from their prey. For the shadows +with which the senses divert themselves are +tyrants they may never hope to abandon. Man +is at the mercy of his phantoms. Behold, I +arrive at a conclusion which means I am bored +with the subject.</p> + +<p>“I prefer the snow. But there is time for +the snow. I must establish premises. Climb +<a name="png.139" id="png.139"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>out of the abyss on a ladder of premises. What +did I say about logic? Oh, yes, the persuasive +repetition. One flake remains invisible. A +thousand flakes are of no account. It is only +when the flakes repeat themselves too endlessly +for my eye to distinguish that I finally ignore +them and walk contentedly in a storm. Thus +with logic. When I have surrounded myself +with an infinity of assurances, my error vanishes +in the constant repetition of itself. And +I am reassured. And sane.</p> + +<p>“Yet I must think simply. The snow +seduces me into fellow labyrinths. I’ve +destroyed her. My senses were in love with +her. They responded to her kisses. She was a +Thought able to ravish my body. This is what +the pathologists would identify as a triumph +of the psychic sex center. What charming palaverers—the +pathologists! Man crawls in a +circle around himself and fancies himself an +invader—a pathologist.</p> + +<p>“A matter of no interest. What I have +done, as the Christian Scientists ably put it, is +<a name="png.140" id="png.140"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fourteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to rid myself of this Thought. But why was it +necessary to strike at it with my hands, to tear +it with my fingers? This worries me. But did +I do these things? I must convince myself that +I didn’t. I remember sinking my hands into +her body, pulling at her flesh. I remember +blows given. She screamed. I struck her and +flung her down. These things I recall.</p> + +<p>“But they do not interfere with my convictions. +For of what are they proof? The +blows I gave were no more than a shrewd +make-believe. To my senses she was real, and +it was necessary therefore to destroy her realistically. +It was easy for my mind to ignore this +Thought. I was never its victim. I merely +created it. My senses that belong to life and +not to me, however, became victimized.</p> + +<p>“I do not recall myself as a spectator of +the struggle. I remember it now as I might +remember participating in an honest fight. A +very clever ruse. It is evident I loaned myself. +I surrendered adroitly to my idiotic senses. +Therefore for that hour I was completely mad. +<a name="png.141" id="png.141"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>What happened in the room? Ah, what a +grotesque memory it makes. Mallare knocking +his fists against the air. Mallare throwing +himself around like an epileptic. Sinking his +fingers into nothing—a shadow boxer pummelling +frenziedly at space. That was madness.</p> + +<p>“But it served its purpose. For I’ve +destroyed her. Rita, Rita is gone. Yet there’s +a curious twist in that. I am lacking one +memory. One very important memory hides +from me. I calculate its time and place, but, +like a recalcitrant comet, it fails to enter the +appointed void. Alas, I no longer remember +killing her in the street.</p> + +<p>“But I am certain I did. Why, certain? +Because my logic establishes the fact. Still, I +would feel better about something, if my memory +were more docile. But what is memory? +The soul of dead illusion. Since it withholds +itself, I will create a memory.</p> + +<p>“There was a lamp shining over my head. +I was walking. And then I stood still. Oh, yes, +shadows. I grew eloquent with shadows. And +<a name="png.142" id="png.142"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>she appeared in the midst of this eloquence. +My hands choked her. She had followed me +into the street and I choked her. But I do not +remember this. At least, the thing grows elusive +and unsatisfactory. Why? Ah, the snow +covers me. I will cover my confusion with a +sigh like the snow.</p> + +<p>“No, I see the thing now. Was she ever +real? There were gypsy wagons and an old +man. A camp fire and this girl with the green +and orange shawl. Yes, these were realities. +But how do I know? Hm, I place my finger +on the sore spot. There is a point where reality +and unreality meet. And this point has vanished +from my mind. I pursue it. A matter of +remarkable importance. It evades me; therefore +I will arbitrarily locate it. The point +between reality and unreality is the arc lamp +in the street. Up to that point Rita was real. I +killed her at that point and she became unreal. +This statement cures me. Nevertheless, my +sanity is a myth. I have invented it, by arbitrarily +identifying the moment of its departure. +But it is better that way than to blunder on +<a name="png.143" id="png.143"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventeen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>without knowing how mad I am or whether I +am mad at all, or whether I ever have been +mad. A lie believed in is an antidote for +confusion.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter. Excellent logic. She +is destroyed. And I am none the worse, except +for a disillusion more—and an uncertainty. +My uncertainty is removed by logic, or at least +concealed by it. And I am sane. I return to +life—another Napoleon walking backwards. +My experiments have led me around a circle. +I meet myself where I started, but naked of +hopes.</p> + +<p>“It snows and I am amiable. Something +has happened. My hatred, where is that? This +street is pleasant. The light of the snow cheers +me. I am, in fact, buoyant. Ah, I understand. +A balloon come down to earth and vain once +more of its buoyancy—its ability to bob along +the pavement.</p> + +<p>“It is curious. I delude myself that I am +thinking. But my alleged thoughts do not +further my ideas. They merely convert them +<a name="png.144" id="png.144"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Eighteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>into little pictures easy for me to understand +and diverting to look at.</p> + +<p>“Still, if I am happy … but how does +one know one is happy? I suspect my happiness. +It is a clown’s suit in which my mourning +disguises itself. Mallare has fallen out of his +black heaven. And he picks himself up like a +good burgher. He grunts and chuckles and +looks at the skies, alas, without curiosity. Lucifer, +fallen, finds diversion as a janitor in red +tights. Ergo, I have proved something. I am +in Hell and with Lucifer I know its secret—happiness.</p> + +<p>“Where is Mallare who fancied himself a +madman? Who sought to climb over his senses +and found himself impaled by a tower of Babel? +Where are his angers, his disgusts that were the +noble shadows thrown by his egoism to blot out +a world? Ballad of rhetorical questions. My +vanity preens itself with <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'reminiscenses'">reminiscences</ins>. I smile. +I am depressed and content. Answers whisper. +Mallare is on his feet. His experiments are +ended. His mania to possess himself is a snow +<a name="png.145" id="png.145"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Nineteen</span><span class="ns">] + </span>that falls forgotten in his past. Vale, the lunatic. +Vale, the man in the moon. Ave, Mallare.</p> + +<p>“It snows. I walk. I think. I smile. And +this too for a time is a diversion—that people +no longer distract me. I carelessly restore the +world. Let there be people, I say. And, alas, +there are. I abdicate. I hand my Godhood +back to the race.</p> + +<p>“Morning begins like another snow in the +distance. Ah, here comes one tired-eyed out of +a house. It is astounding to think that he is +human like myself. He and I are actors in the +same play, yet ignorant of each other’s lines. +But I may guess at his part. He is frightened. +He looks furtively toward me. And he walks +rather lamely. Aha, a fornicator! He has left +a warm bed, illegally occupied for the night. +A woman in a rumpled night dress moaned +under him. The plot is simple. How pleasing +it was for a moment. She came so close. She +was like an incredibly intimate secret. He +gasped physiological instructions. And—finis! +The captains and the kings depart. The recessional +<a name="png.146" id="png.146"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>of the douche! Do you love me yet, do +you love me yet?</p> + +<p>“And now he walks in the cold street. He +must hurry away. There are complications, +but they make a minor drama. Off stage business. +He is aware of contrasts. A moment +ago—her arms, her gasps. A moment ago +warmth, intimacy. And now, the snow, the +cold, and life. Memory like fool’s gold jingles +in his pocket. Life is real, life is earnest. He +regrets his orgasms. They will interfere with +business.</p> + +<p>“The male rampant! What a sinister +comedian! The mythical despoiler. Hm, his +head bows down. The snow disturbs him. Sad, +weary, remorseful, he drags himself home. He +has lessened his virility and it worries him. +There is a plot in this. Some day I will write +it out—a love story of the sexes. Poor, weary +one, he has enriched Delilah.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I am amused. It will be pleasant +to observe people once more. Sanity has its +<a name="png.147" id="png.147"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>rewards. Its laughter is a charming hint of +madness that one may enjoy harmlessly.</p> + +<p>“What a lecherous spectacle a row of dark +houses is! Bedrooms filled with bodies—incredible +nudities. Bed springs creaking. The +hour of asterisks. Window blinds down. Doors +locked. Lights out. The city lingers in the +snow like a feeble burlesque. Houses and +shops and street car tracks gesture reprovingly. +Civilization bows its head in the night like an +abandoned bride. Man, like an ape hunting +fleas, preoccupies himself again with his nerve +centers.</p> + +<p>“Darkened houses, silence—Rabelais and +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'Boccacio'">Boccaccio</ins> debate the immaculate conception. +Eros, patron saint of the laundryman, conducts +ancient rituals.</p> + +<p>“Ah, these indefatigable and unctuous +fornicators, rolling their eyes piously between +orgasms; embroidering noble mottoes on their +pleasure towels! [These prim exquisites, carefully +and with raised eyebrows, folding their +toilet paper into proper squares!] Who can be +<a name="png.148" id="png.148"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>angry with them? God drove them out of +Paradise—punishment enough. They revenge +themselves with a monotonous enthusiasm. Ah, +these fellatian moralists! It is folly to take +their <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'hypocricies'">hypocrisies</ins> to heart. The plot is too delicious +for tears. These two-fisted citizens, these +purity braggarts masturbating with one finger +unemployed and pointing scornfully at their +neighbors!</p> + +<p>“Charming street. It offers consolations, +simple ones, to be sure. But nevertheless, consolations. +My madness was not as mad as this +dark street. This is a prettier witches’ night +than the one I aspired to. I am amused and +my amusement is an insult that inspires me. If +one cannot become God, one can at least sit and +sneer happily at the handiwork of his rival.</p> + +<p>“The dawn comes into my head. Poor +Mallare, who must readjust his vocabulary to +coherences. The night flies away. How simple +this little scene becomes. Mysteries vanish. +Doors open. Window blinds raise themselves. +And now people stick their heads out into the +<a name="png.149" id="png.149"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>cold. Wagons, trucks, crowds begin. They +hurry to work, older by a night.</p> + +<p>“My sanity laughs at them, but sadly. I +detect an obligato to my mirth. The comedy +is poignant only because I am a part of it. +These hurrying ones with their tired faces and +eager shoulders are my brothers and sisters +sharing with me the spectacle they make. They +are a disillusioning mirror in which I see +myself a million times. Yes, they look back at +me, and their weariness, their hopelessness saddens +me. Man sees himself by gazing into the +world—and is overcome. It is only a lunatic +who can keep merry in the face of so monstrous +an image.</p> + +<p>“My happiness is without merriment. I +return quickly. I have already the habit of +coherence. In a few hours I will go back again +and begin with canvas and paint once more. +My madness is a lost argument. I am a little +tired. But, alas, he who has danced and slept +with Medusa goes home weary.</p> + +<p><a name="png.150" id="png.150"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-four</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“It will take time before my amusement +ripens into rages. And without rages work is +impossible. I will wait. Now I am too indifferent +for anything but happiness. It is easy +to walk and forget one’s self and one’s senses. +It will come back. Mallare will return and +expend himself naively in decorations once +more.</p> + +<p>“When I am strong again I will hunt up a +woman. Poor Rita, whom I have murdered +twice, illustrating the paradox of possession. +Man, the slave of his senses, possesses only +what his five masters offer him as gifts.</p> + +<p>“I will find a clever one this time whom +jests do not frighten. One who does not burn +incense before her vagina and cover it with an +altar piece. How unctuously women embrace +ideas which increase the value and importance +of their urinal ducts! Modesty, morality, prurience, +piety, are the effulgent underwear +behind which they increase the mystery and +charm of the mons veneris. Alas, they are the +artists of sex and not men. Man has even +<a name="png.151" id="png.151"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>thrown away the seductive cod-piece. The +origins of ideas are varied and multiple. But +whatever their origins, it is women who utilize +them. What an incredible sex! Vaginomaniacs.</p> + +<p>“I will hunt up a vulgar woman, one who +does not piously regard her vulva as an orifice +to be approached with Gregorian chants. I +must be careful to avoid those veteran masturbators +marching heroically under the gonfalons +of virginity. It is a difficult business, +finding a woman. A modest one will offend +my intellect. A shameless one will harass my +virility. A stupid one will be unable to appreciate +my largess. An intelligent one will penetrate +my impotency.</p> + +<p>“But why women? The devil take them +all. I am almost tired of the disillusions they +have to offer. The homely ones go away grateful +for something they never received. The +pretty ones go away chuckling secretly over +something they never gave. It is a confused +and unintelligible waste of time. It will be +enough to paint, to talk, to sip tea, to wander +<a name="png.152" id="png.152"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>about proselyting in behalf of improvised +Gods. I will divert myself, making love to +women out of range of their bedrooms. I will +engage them conversationally and ravish them +with erect and quivering adjectives. It is not +necessary to undress a woman to know her. She +reveals herself almost as piquantly in moods. +I will be the father of moods. And, as a recreation, +I will sit and watch the days in their +unchanging flight. I bristle with rhetoric. It +is a symptom of sanity. I am grateful for this +ability to bore myself.”</p> + +<p>It was morning. Mallare paused against +a window. He stood, staring into the life of +the street. His eyes were drawn and the corners +of his wide, thin mouth smiled feebly.</p> + +<p>Snow was falling. The morning dissolved +itself. Traffic drifted busily and without sound +behind the snow—an excited pantomime that +filled the air with misplaced, ventriloquial +whispers.</p> + +<p>Mallare remained smiling into the gentle +storm. Snow covered his head and shoulder.</p> + +<p><a name="png.153" id="png.153"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“The snow falls,” he thought tiredly. “It +snows, snows. White flakes lose themselves and +are grateful for the earth. An invisible ending +that flatters them. Well, I have walked all +night and rid myself of wisdoms. I am hungry. +It’s possible I haven’t eaten for months. In +order to eat, however, I need money.”</p> + +<p>He slipped one of the gloves from his hand +and felt in his pocket. A satisfied smile came +to his eyes.</p> + +<p>“Excellent,” he thought. “Or I would +have celebrated my sanity by starving to death.”</p> + +<p>Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he +found himself regarding it. It grinned back at +him like a stranger. It was red.</p> + +<p>“Blood,” he murmured. His eyes glanced +quickly around and he replaced the glove. He +continued to walk.</p> + +<p>“Blood,” he repeated to himself. The +word made an ending in his thought. He +walked slowly staring at it. His silence lifted. +A voice crept into him and began to speak +from a distance.</p> + +<p><a name="png.154" id="png.154"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-eight</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Careful,” it murmured. “Be cautious. +Remember you were mad. You had almost +forgotten. There is something to think about, +now. You will walk slowly and think. It’s +not as easy as it seemed. Be careful.</p> + +<p>“Your fists fought with a phantom. Blows, +wild blows. The grotesque memory—the madman +pummelling the air. That was you. And +your hands are bruised. They’ve been bleeding. +Her breasts and head were something +else. Your fists struck mercilessly at chairs and +walls. When your hands are washed you will +find bruises over them that have been bleeding.”</p> + +<p>He walked on nodding his head slowly. +Later he stopped. The snow was piling itself +over the grass of a small park. The swollen +shapes of trees and benches rested in the storm.</p> + +<p>Mallare sat down on a bench and removed +his gloves. Both hands were red. Smiling +tiredly, he began to rub them with the snow. +His eyes waited as the color dissolved. His +hands were clean. He looked at them and +nodded.</p> + +<p><a name="png.155" id="png.155"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Twenty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“There are no bruises,” he murmured. +“The blood came from something else.”</p> + +<p>He paused and watched the snow.</p> + +<p>“It is curious,” he whispered aloud. “Then +I am still mad. Careful … mad. For there +was blood … and not mine. So it would seem +I have been seducing myself with optimisms. A +true madman. Yes, a lunatic mumbling excitedly +to himself in the snow all night, saying:</p> + +<p>“Sane. Mallare is quite sane.”</p> + +<p>He laughed softly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. I’m too clever for you, Mallare. +Very much too clever. You present a pair of +red hands to me. I wash them carefully in +the snow. They become white. Interesting +phenomena.”</p> + +<p>He chuckled softly and stared at the snow +and swollen trees.</p> + +<p>“The old circle again,” he murmured. +“And I begin the absorbing hide and go seek +with my senses. Who am I and where do I +end? And who are they and where do they +<a name="png.156" id="png.156"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>begin? Let us study the phenomenon of red +hands. Primo—how do I know there was +blood? My eyes said, ‘blood.’ And the snow +is red. But that is only because my eyes, infatuated +with an idea, repeat the information.</p> + +<p>“But I, Mallare, who am no madman’s +pawn, no lickspittle secretary to my senses, I +say, ‘no blood.’ I am the Pope. I excommunicate +the phenomenon.</p> + +<p>“Ah, if there is blood, I fought with one +who could bleed. And even my cleverness +could not supply arteries in a phantom. Ergo, +there is no blood. I am still mad. I see that +which is not. But it is nothing to be disturbed +about. In fact, it is a diversion.”</p> + +<p>The snow slowly covered the figure of +Mallare. His drawn eyes balanced themselves +amid the flakes.</p> + +<p>“It snows, snows,” he murmured after a +pause. “And I remember something. What is +it I think! Rita … Yes, there would be +blood if Rita were … Hm, the murdered +<a name="png.157" id="png.157"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>one. There was something I didn’t remember +while I walked.</p> + +<p>“I can’t. Not that way. Careful, Mallare. +Be careful. There are thoughts impossible to +think. Yes, impossible.”</p> + +<p>Again silence filled him. His drawn eyes +widened.</p> + +<p>“Mallare,” he whispered, “you are a madman. +I know. This chokes. Yes. It was I—I, +Mallare. It is I who have been mad. I have +been mad myself. Not you. No, not you! But +the God—the Strange Pose. I can’t. An impossible +denouement. My head breaks. Her +blood … Rita.”</p> + +<p>He stared open mouthed at a question that +circled toward him out of the snow. Words +babbled in his head. He shook himself away +from them and stared.</p> + +<p>“She was alive!” he cried aloud. “My +phantom lived. It was I who was the phantom. +And she—alive!”</p> + +<p class="pgbrk"><a name="png.158" id="png.158"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>His face whitened, his eyes remained inanimate +and gleaming with terror. Then the +figure of Mallare fell forward and lay curved +in the snow.</p> + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 132</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.161" id="png.161" href="images/drawing8a.png"><img + src="images/drawing8a-sml.png" width="439" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Eighth Drawing</p> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="png.163" id="png.163"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-three</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[VIII]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><i><img class="initial" src="images/f.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="F" /><span class="start">rom</span> the Journal of Mallare +dated January.</i></p> + +<p class="top2">“I am the one who contemplates. +I am the Knowing +One. There is nothing I +do not know. It is amazing +to be Mallare. I have triumphed +over five worlds. I +look down upon a rabble of Mallares. There +are five Mallares—five sullen looking madmen. +One of them sits and listens to voices. +Another of them wanders about, staring with +sad eyes at intolerable visions. Another of +them lies on his back, babbling excitedly with +the darkness. Another of them eats and sleeps +<a name="png.164" id="png.164"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>like a prosperous grocer. And there is a fifth +Mallare who weeps. A baffling rogue who +puts his arms around me and blubbers on my +shoulder like a lodge brother. He says nothing, +and of them all I dislike him the most.</p> + +<p>“His silence is mysterious. His tears are +uncomfortable. A distressing ass, weeping, +blubbering. He implores me. Aha, I have it. +I know his secret. He is memory—a memory +of myself following me around like a heart-broken +mother a wayward son.</p> + +<p><ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original omits opening double quote">“Five</ins> Mallares, five sinister comedians to +entertain me. And I, what can I call myself—pure +reason? No, a disgusting title. Rather, +Unreason, since I am after all the Indifferent +One. But all this is a quibble inspired by modesty. +I am God. I am that which men have +worshipped—the aloof one, the pitiless and +amused one.</p> + +<p>“The five tribes of Mallare rage and curse +beneath me, fill the air with profanations, weep +and gibber in the night. But I sit inviolate and +wait for them—even for that blubbering one +<a name="png.165" id="png.165"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>whose tongue is thick with tears and whose +idiot eyes implore me—and they return. They +raise their faces to me, their God, and fall prostrate +before my smile.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is the weeping one who causes me +the most trouble. A reluctant worshipper who +annoys me. He clings like another phantom. +A meddlesome imbecile who keeps buttonholing +me and pouring out tales of woe. And who +keeps my name on his lips. I can see it moving +on his lips. But he is dumb. I have his secret +though. This dumb one came to me in the +snow. I was faint. Hunger had thrown me to +the ground. When I stood up he was beside +me. His lips moved excitedly but they made +no sound. And we walked home together.</p> + +<p>“‘Who is this pathetic intruder?’ I thought. +‘He walks beside me gesturing with his lips +and weeping, weeping. He falls on my neck +and embraces me. His eyes roll with panic. +What new variant of madness is this?’</p> + +<p>“It is curious that of all the Mallares he +alone is speechless. The others keep up their +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'incessent'">incessant</ins> babbling and screaming—true citizens +<a name="png.166" id="png.166"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>of Bedlam. But this dumb one who +attached himself to me in the snow, even his +lips have stopped moving now, except to form +my name slowly as he blubbers on my shoulder.</p> + +<p>“I am kind to him and forgiving. I smile. +I even coax him to speak, to move his lips once +more. In the snow when he followed me home +I was able to detect words his silence spoke.</p> + +<p>“‘Blood on your hands,’ he repeated. +‘Think, think, Mallare.’</p> + +<p>“I humored him and looked at my hands. +They were clean. And I answered him soothingly.</p> + +<p>“‘You are an interesting quirk,’ I said. +‘My senses that fancy they have killed a woman +have given birth to an illusion of guilt. And +you are that illusion. My madness dresses itself +in logic like a fishwife hanging rhinestones in +her hair.</p> + +<p>“‘Be calm,’ I said, ‘Mallare has slain only +a phantom, and the murder of illusions is a +highly respectable privilege whose exercise is +rewarded on earth as well as in heaven.’</p> + +<p><a name="png.167" id="png.167"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“But this creature was not to be diverted +from himself.</p> + +<p>“‘He is another one of them,’ I thought. +‘He walks and implores and wrings his hand +and babbles, ‘blood, blood that was real.’ And +there is nothing to be done with him. Another +pathologic symptom asks the hospitality of +Mallare, and I must make the proper pretense +of graciousness and cordiality.</p> + +<p>“‘But first I must identify my guest. Take +his measure out of the corner of my eye and +understand him. Very well, I have been the +victim of a hallucination which my senses +accepted as real. And which I was able to +murder only by pretending I too believed it +real. Therefore, having committed this illusory +crime, there results this illusory sense of +guilt.’</p> + +<p>“And thus we walked home, this dumb +one and I, his absurd grief confusing me. I +will confess. My name on his lips frightened +me at first. As it sometimes does now. For he +has become more than an illusion of guilt. He +<a name="png.168" id="png.168"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>is, this sly fellow, a memory, inarticulate and +envious. He envies me because I am clever +enough to laugh at my madness. However, I +will consider him later, in his various guises, +for of all the Mallares, dumb though he is and +ludicrous with inane tears, he interests me the +most.</p> + +<p>“We walked home and I finally fell to +belaboring him. A pest, a mendicant, a croaking +idiot—I cursed him out roundly and +refused him further attention. This is the +wisest course sometimes. It is dangerous to +humor too carelessly these sprawling Mallares. +They are slyly at war with my omnipotence. +I can understand the anger of God. Sacrilege +confuses Him. And We are all alike—We +Gods. We are forced into an attitude of indifference +in order that We may keep Ourselves +intact. Thus We look down with Consummate +dispassion upon Our hallucinations—Our +worlds. And it is this dispassion that men worship +in Us, unable to understand Our lack of +interest and terrified by Our aloofness they +prostrate themselves before an infinite mystery.</p> + +<p><a name="png.169" id="png.169"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Thirty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Yet, though the theology of God has +become the secret of My unreason, I find +Myself dangerously susceptible. It is when I +seek to appease My loneliness by raising one of +the babbling ones to My side. He enters My +black heaven with a pretense of gratitude, +fawning before Me and accepting My fellowship +with humility. There follows then a +moment of insidious diversion. Slowly a confusion +fills Me. Yes, even I am open to confusion. +It is a pity I have for the babbling one.</p> + +<p>“I listen to his complaints. The sad-eyed +Mallare staring at intolerable visions. Mallare, +the dark chatterer. Or this other one—My +friend the weeping lodge brother. Yes, I +pity them and soothe them. But I find Myself +singularly moved. Their prayers move Me. +They begin to whisper that I return with them. +I am tempted to follow them, to let them take +My hand and lead Me into their strange houses.</p> + +<p>“But I smile in time and My smile, fixed +and profound, overcomes them. They prostrate +themselves once more before the mystery +<a name="png.170" id="png.170"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>of My indifference. And I remain the God of +Mallare.</p> + +<p>“On this day the dumb one sprawled along +home with me, there were many curious things +happened. I had walked all night in the snow +weary with hunger. Rita, who had driven me +into a moment of fury—I had destroyed her +for the time. A strange destruction during +which I pummelled the air like a veritable +madman. But the ruse had served to rid me of +the hallucination for the night. Finally, tired +with walking and hunger, I fell from a bench +in the park.</p> + +<p>“When I awoke I recalled at once the grotesque +struggle of the night. And with this +dumb, weeping creature dogging my steps, I +returned home. She was still with me. I +smiled, although I confess there was despair in +my thought. For I had fancied the miserable +business of the night had put an end to the +hallucination. No, she was still there. She was +waiting for me on the couch.</p> + +<p>“But my mind had not deceived itself. It +was as I had thought. I had planned to rid +<a name="png.171" id="png.171"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>myself of her by hating this phantom until my +hate had darkened it. Then there would be +nothing but an imperceptible shadow of her +remaining, one with which my senses could no +longer seduce themselves.</p> + +<p>“And when I came into the room I saw +my plot was working. For her eyes no longer +gleamed. A radiance had left her.</p> + +<p>“‘My hate begins to operate upon this +chimera,’ I thought. I frowned at her and sat +down, worn out with the walking of the night.</p> + +<p>“‘I have undermined the infatuation of +this phantom,’ I thought. I would have been +elate but it occurred to me there was an inconsistency. +This dumb one, this sniveling one, persisted. +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original omits opening single quote">‘And</ins> how should he, who was dependent +upon her death for his existence, persist in her +presence?’ This was a question for Mallare, +the indifferent one. This was a query to answer.</p> + +<p>“Ah, I will write more about this blubberer, +for the answer to him is piquantly +involved. It is like a head with too many hats. +<a name="png.172" id="png.172"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>But not now—I will not write about him now. +I will only bear him in mind.</p> + +<p>“She watched me from the couch and I +became aware of something. I studied her +cautiously. Her eyes no longer gleamed with +love. There was a radiance absent.</p> + +<p>“‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘she hates. Mallare +recovers the strings to his Frankenstein. His +puppet dances again to his will. See, my senses +no longer leap to her. They tremble warily +before the hate in her eyes.’</p> + +<p>“I watched her as she watched me. And +then an incredible thing happened. She arose +from the couch and came slowly toward me +and she held a knife in her hand. She came +toward me with the knife at her side.</p> + +<p>“‘Clever,’ I thought. ‘In fact, a miracle +of cleverness. This phantom has gone mad. It +is madder than I. It fancies itself able to slay +me. It advances upon me with its dagger of +mist and it intends to fall upon me. This mysterious +logic that grows of itself like a fungus +in darkness, where will it end? Already it +<a name="png.173" id="png.173"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>towers around me—a monstrous weed rising +out of my madness, and I am chilled by its +shadow.’</p> + +<p>“And I continued to think:</p> + +<p>“‘I desired to be rid of her. My desire +finally overleaped my befuddled senses. And +now this desire has become a new soul for my +phantom. Yet I planned no details in my desire. +I did not will this melodramatic denouement. +Then it is obvious that my desire is like a seed +filled with hidden life. I blow a thought into +my phantom and that thought develops and +hatches. This is a phenomenon to be written +about.’</p> + +<p>“As I thought she came closer and finally +stood over me. Her eyes, I observed, were completely +mad. Yes, they were like horrible fires. +And her face was a marvel of mimicry. The +cleverness of my thought appalled me. I said +nothing, however, and watched her. She began +to talk. I had become used to this phase of the +hallucination. But this time my senses shuddered +at her words. They who had been so +<a name="png.174" id="png.174"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>eager to sate themselves in the possession of +this chimera and who had betrayed my omnipotence, +they now suffered the penalty of their +blindness. For it was evident that to them, this +chimera was still real. She was an avenger +towering with a knife above them.</p> + +<p>“But Mallare smiled.</p> + +<p>“‘See,’ he murmured aloud, ‘here is the +reward of your folly. You would philander +with this shadow. You would disport yourself +in abominable fornications with this hallucination. +Very well, I am amused at your clownish +terror even more than I was amused at your +burlesque ecstasies. Tremble now for here is +a Medusa, a <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'Messilina'">Messalina</ins> come to destroy you. +Whimper and grovel, but observe in your idiot +cowardice how Mallare, the indifferent one, +sits and smiles—still supreme, still a spectator +ravished by the dark comedy.’</p> + +<p>“I could not resist this moment of triumph. +I laughed although there was no one to enjoy +my laughter. And I watched her. She was still +talking, deep, meaningless words. For it was +<a name="png.175" id="png.175"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>her habit to talk in the gypsy language when +moved. Often this fact baffled me. But I perceive +now that my thought was a seed containing +my omniscience in microcosm. God does +not invent languages but He understands them +since it is unnecessary for Him to know, in His +indifference, what they are saying. And the +language my phantom spoke, although foreign +to me, was nevertheless an integral part of my +thought—another of the manifestations with +which God naively astounds Himself. It is +His only diversion.</p> + +<p>“I was curious concerning the effect upon +my senses of this illusory attack. And, I must +confess these things simply, there came to me +the idea that Mallare might be slain by the +cowardice of his senses. There would be nothing +illogical in that. For if this chimera had +been able to trick them into the illusion of love, +it was entirely natural that it should be able to +trick them now into the illusion of death. With +the exception that death is an illusion even +Mallare, the indifferent one, might not survive.</p> + +<p><a name="png.176" id="png.176"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-six</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Ah, Mallare, Mallare! He wanders pensively +amid treacherous shadows—Mallare—an +image debating subtly the existence of its +mirror. I sigh. But it is one of the relaxations +of God—to pity Himself His uselessness.</p> + +<p>“Her talk came to an end and she raised +her knife. Die or not, the thing was too incredible +a farce to leave me unmoved. Yes, I +laughed out of sheer delight. The drollery of +this phantom hacking at Mallare with a non-existent +dagger … a mad windmill charging +Don Quixote! Superb!</p> + +<p>“I perceive now a moral in the situation +that I did not think of at the time. Sacrilege is +a vital danger to God. His omnipotence is +dependent upon the submission of His creatures. +And they who, inspired with the quaint +illusion of their own reality, turn upon Him—ah, +they destroy themselves. But their destruction +impoverishes their God.</p> + +<p>“At the time, however, the spectacle alone +and not its significances, preoccupied me. I +laughed and reached my hand to the dagger. +A sadistic gesture, for I desired to give my +<a name="png.177" id="png.177"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>senses a taste of its reality and thus enjoy their +squirming. Marvelous dagger! The point of it +was sharp. Mallare can invent daggers, beautiful +daggers that poise melodramatically over +his heart, that move slowly in quest of his life’s +blood! S’death, a property man of parts!</p> + +<p>“‘Clever dagger,’ I murmured. ‘Do you +enjoy the illusion of yourself as much as this +chimera wielding you quivers with the illusion +of impending murder?’</p> + +<p>“It paused before me and I nodded. My +laughter had halted it. It was evident that my +thought operating in this phantom was confused +by my laughter. I nodded again.</p> + +<p>“‘It would be logical and extremely pleasant,’ +I thought, ‘if this creature, shrinking +before the sacrilege of destroying its creator, +turned on itself and accomplished a more probable +assassination.’</p> + +<p>“She stood before me and I was pleased to +see her hatred increase. It was amazingly +vivid. I observed the viciousness of her features. +Her face had become contorted. Its fury +<a name="png.178" id="png.178"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>was like a mask. But she had dropped the knife. +I could not refrain smiling an encouragement +at her—the naive applause an author bestows +upon his puppets.</p> + +<p>“But the plot still contained surprises. <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original lacks comma">Yes,</ins> +astonishing denouements began to crowd the +stage. For she started to undress. Here was +a trick that baffled Mallare. I winced with +distaste.</p> + +<p>“‘The consistency which I have hitherto +admired in my madness seems rather dubious.’ +I thought. ‘The melodrama of illusions grows +too improbable. This fine tragedy crumbles +into the ludicrous. She forgets her hate. She +is again Rita, the infatuated one. A lightning +change that smacks of inferior vaudeville. She +is about to undress and resume her deplorable +assaults upon my idiot senses. A poorly written +business. I have a notion to walk out.’</p> + +<p>“But I remained smiling at the absurdity, +too tired to leave my chair. I was pleased +to notice that her nudity did not this time +appeal to my doting madness. This marked an +<a name="png.179" id="png.179"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Forty-nine</span><span class="ns">] + </span>improvement—a foretaste of victory. The disintegration +had begun.</p> + +<p>“Her body was interesting. It was covered +with bruises. There were stains on its flesh. +At the sight of them the lodge brother, the +sniveling one who had followed me home in +the snow, set up a veritable caterwauling. Here +was terrible evidence of the fellow’s guilt. The +bruises of course. An accomplished penitent, +this blubberer, able to transform himself from +a Sense of Homicidal Guilt into a mere feeling +of General Remorse.</p> + +<p>“She was not dead. Yet he lingered. And +now, at the sight of her bruises, he rushed +forward with inferior regrets. He will bear +study, this weeping one. Of all the sprawling +Mallares, he alone lacks logic. But I will come +to him later. The plot is more entertaining than +this incongruous spectator weeping and hissing +out of turn.</p> + +<p>“She began to talk once more and wildly. +The sense of it dawned on me. She was calling +Goliath. He came shuffling from his usual +<a name="png.180" id="png.180"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>hiding place—the curtains. A diverting little +monster. I bear him no ill will. Although I +grow slightly envious of his madness. Yet his +madness is a terrific flattery. It is involved and +piquant and one of the things that remain for +me to study cautiously. The madness of Goliath +and, of course, this gentleman Niobe.</p> + +<p>“He came out, a fact at the time that astonished +me. For I had not been aware of his +madness. He stood with his bent and bulbous +body shaking and his hands resting like a baboon’s +on the floor. I was noticing the excitement +of his huge head when it came to me with +a curious feeling—he was looking at her. Yes, +Goliath my servant was looking not at me. But +at her!</p> + +<p>“‘Careful, Mallare, be careful,’ I thought. +The insane sniveling of this lodge brother distracted +me. His arms came around me and he +rested his head on me and wept. Insufferable +ass! It was impossible to think. I remained +with my eyes watching and repeating cautiously +to myself the warning.</p> + +<p><a name="png.181" id="png.181"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-one</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Here was a trick too baffling for Mallare. +Mallare must suspend himself, close his eyes +and climb slowly back into his black heaven.</p> + +<p>“‘Then Goliath too is a phantom,’ I +thought. ‘But careful, be careful, Mallare. +That is too easy. And you remember. It is +dangerous to hide from too many memories. +They will become shadows that nibble at +you. He is not a phantom. Goliath is no +chimera. He lives. He has reality.</p> + +<p>“‘Then how does it come,’ I continued +thinking, ‘that he sees that which is visible only +to you? His eyes are fastened on her who is to +be seen only inside the caverns of Mallare. He +raises his arms. His hands touch her. I am +imagining Goliath. Goliath is not in the room. +This is a memory of him that has wandered +onto the scene of my madness.’</p> + +<p>“Here my thinking ended. I sat contemplating +the imbecile, the blubberer. He pressed +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'himslf'">himself</ins> upon me with his shameless importunings. +He snivelled and his lips moved with +my name. I watched them say, ‘Mallare’ and +<a name="png.182" id="png.182"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>repeat ‘Mallare’ till I grew dizzy with the +pantomime of my name. I will study this later +and discover the secret of his lips. My name +drifting continually over them has a way of +hypnotizing me. But later—later.</p> + +<p>“I began thinking once more.</p> + +<p>“‘This lodge brother weeps while Goliath +takes liberties with my phantom. There is a +connection there. But it is unimportant for the +present. I must discover something else.’</p> + +<p>“Then, like a victory too long withheld, it +came to me. He was mad. Goliath, my servant, +was mad. But more than that—a telepathic +madness. I have elaborated my understanding +since. Goliath suffers from a contagion. His +constant attendance upon me has proved fatal +to his stupidity. His senses are the victims of +my puppets. He has entered my world and my +madness creates for him, as it does for me, +shadows that deceive him. But there is no +Mallare in him. Unlike me, he does not sit in +amused judgment upon himself.</p> + +<p><a name="png.183" id="png.183"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-three</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“It is an interesting phenomenon—this +strange mesmerism. It remains to be studied. +Goliath and I are mad brothers. This understanding +arrived in time. Or else I would have +flung myself in despair upon the ever-imploring +bosom of my lugubrious sniveler.</p> + +<p>“Rita was real to Goliath. I watched him +excitedly and continued to think. I addressed +myself:</p> + +<p>“‘Observe,’ I said, ‘here you have a distressing +visualization. Goliath, your dwarf, +mimics your madness. And it is not pleasant +to look at. His eyes roll with passion. His fat +lips chew upon lewd expectations. His fingers +raise themselves like frightened blasphemies to +her breasts. And he watches you. Yes, his eyes +sneak glimpses of you. For you are his rival! +You and this nigger monster are vaginal comrades. +It is pleasant to see that you have the +decency to feel <ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original omits closing single quote">enraged.’</ins> Five infatuated Mallares +sputtered and wept and gnashed their +teeth.</p> + +<p>“As I talked I turned my attention to her. +In my excitement over Goliath I had ignored +<a name="png.184" id="png.184"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>her. Her hands were fumbling with the clothes +of this doting rival. But her eyes were on me. +They blazed.</p> + +<p>“‘This pantomime of shadows grows +involved,’ I thought. But I was experimenting +with rhetoric. For the thing was absurdly simple. +Hate still animated my phantom. And +this was her revenge. She was about to give +herself to the black dwarf Goliath. She was +about to commit sexual hari-kari.</p> + +<p>“I watched her hands remove his clothes, +his red jacket, his fine shirt. He jumped up +and down like a distracted child, his own hands +bewildered with too many activities. They fondled +her, they tugged at his trousers. They +became insane and flapped at his sides. She +helped him, her eyes still watching me.</p> + +<p>“‘At last I produce a horror worthy of +myself,’ I thought. ‘The mist dagger was melodrama +to be smiled at. But this—ah, here we +have a refinement that reduces death to a minor +obscenity. She attacks me now with a weapon +worthy my indifference. It is true, my senses +<a name="png.185" id="png.185"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-five</span><span class="ns">] + </span>writhe less frightenedly. But I, Mallare—yes, +Mallare the Supreme One—honor her assault +with a shudder.</p> + +<p>“‘Ah, who but Mallare could have invented +so subtle a blasphemy, so accomplished an +enemy. It is an old theological quibble, but I +understand it now. God is the greatest atheist. +He is proud of a disbelief in Himself.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, this phantom is the atheism of Mallare. +And it is at last a true child. A parental +pride excites me. Like Mallare, her father, +she rises above herself. I have breathed the +soul of hate into her. My hatred alive with a +cleverness of its own speaks to itself.</p> + +<p>“‘It says, ‘I am the hatred of Mallare. I +desire to murder him. I am his phantom, but +the suffering and insult he has heaped upon me +grow unbearable. His cruelty and coldness +have filled me with fury. I would have killed +him but that would have been almost an infidelity. +For his senses have been my lovers. I +remember them with tears. I decided not to +kill him because that would have meant to kill +<a name="png.186" id="png.186"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-six</span><span class="ns">] + </span>his senses. But this other one, this Insufferable +and Aloof One—this Serene One staring amusedly +at me out of His black heaven—how send +my hatred against him? Ah, I will conspire +with his senses. I am no more than an idea in +the head of God. But the head of God is but +an idea that encircles me. I am a phantom +within a phantom. Thus I must make myself +nauseous. I must make myself too hideous. I +must make myself so monstrous that the Idea +which contains me will feel an anguish. And +this anguish will be the applause to my hate.’</p> + +<p>“I sat shrewdly silent, for the moment +was approaching. At last I perceived myself +behind the logic of this Frankenstein. For it +was I—I, Mallare—that was attacking myself +with this hatred. It was Mallare who was +arranging this little plot for himself. And +why? Because then the head of Mallare, nauseated +by the vileness of the assault, would disgorge +forever the hallucination of Rita. It was +an emetic Mallare had found necessary to +administer to himself.</p> + +<p><a name="png.187" id="png.187"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-seven</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“Ah, my cleverness grows incredible. I +am too Supreme to grasp Myself. There are +still unexplored crevices in My infinity, and +out of these continue to issue surprises that +divert Me.</p> + +<p>“Goliath was undressed. His black body, +lumped and like some mad caricature of itself, +gleamed in the light.</p> + +<p>“‘See,’ I said. ‘Note this bulbous little +black man. For he is a caricature not of himself +but of you. He is a rival before whom +your senses wince as before some unflattering +image. Yes—the image of Mallare stands +saluting his charming chimera with an interesting +Ethiopian erection. For though they +differ in many externals, Mallare and Goliath +are one. They are ornamented insulations for +an identical current. And here, throbbing +under an erection is the current of Mallare and +of an infinity of Mallares.</p> + +<p>“‘Ah, the penis of this dwarf is repellent +because that which Mallare so fondly called +his own—his desires—is revealed to him as +<a name="png.188" id="png.188"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>grotesquely promiscuous. Yes, the penis is the +democratic tabernacle of Life. Under its little +Moorish roof, the senses of the race kneel in +common prayer.</p> + +<p>“‘Observe it, Mallare. It is the rendezvous +of expiring illusions, the gathering place +of the anonymities which utilize man, beasts +and plants. See how this curious dwarf staggers +like a bewildered stranger in its shadow. +He is an outcast. He is useless. He is no longer +necessary. Life which made a pretense of him, +enters its tabernacle and closes the doors on +him. Here is the great secret. Here stands the +grim tyrant before whose delicious wrath man +bows himself into annihilations.</p> + +<p>“‘Ah, what a marvelous tabernacle! It +moves and Goliath follows. It points and +Goliath runs after it. An infatuated tabernacle +that fancies itself going to Heaven! It is proud. +It struts. Goliath shuffles after it like a forlorn +little nigger in the wake of a circus. It leaps. +And Goliath gallops after it. Aha! he lies on +his back impaled. But she!’</p> + +<p><a name="png.189" id="png.189"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Fifty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“They were on the couch. She sat beside +him but her eyes still sought me. Noises issued +from Goliath. He rolled on his back, kicking +crooked legs and yelping.</p> + +<p>“I watched her white body spread over +him. Her eyes left me and my rhetoric dwindled +into a sigh. I was alone with a spectacle. +Goliath, masturbating with a phantom—but +not as Mallare had done. No, not as Mallare +who had lain indifferent beside his Frankenstein. +For Goliath’s arms were around her, his +legs entwined her. His body, an insanity in +itself, made a mate beneath her more incredible +than she. There was silence. Then she +<span class="nw">screamed!——</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, Mallare closed his eyes. A coldness +<ins class="TN" title="Transcriber's note: + original reads 'tiptoed'">tip-toed</ins> out of his heart. She was laughing. +Her laughter entered his ears—a noise that +was like a witch’s flight of sound. But who was +it laughed? Mallare, Mallare laughed. It was +his voice in the phantom that laughed at him. +It was his hallucination he had loved that now +gave itself to a little monster. And it was his +hate that designed this laugh, a thing that +<a name="png.190" id="png.190"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty</span><span class="ns">] + </span>pierced the heaven in which he sat. Mallare +closed his eyes, a God shuddering before His +own atheism. Yes, rhetoric now. It is easy to +write. My words embroider themselves.</p> + +<p>“But then, when the laugh struck Mallare! +Ah, there was curious mutiny. They went +away. The little Mallares who worship me +went away, all but one. The dumb one. Yes, +I write of him again. He came to me then and +his tears were more horrible than the scream I +had heard. His weeping came too close. His +weeping grew too loud. His arms embraced +me and he held his face too close to mine. And +my name rose from his lips.</p> + +<p>“I was alone with him and my fingers +fought with his throat. This blubberer who +had followed me home in the snow, yes this +insufferable melancholiac who rained his tears +into my Heaven—Mallare would have killed +him.</p> + +<p>“But he was too sly. He slipped away and +sprawled around the room. He beat his hands +against walls and tore at his hair. I followed +<a name="png.191" id="png.191"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-one</span><span class="ns">] + </span>watching him and coaxing him to come close +once more. I smiled at him to come near again. +But no, he avoided me. He stood against the +curtains facing me and pointing his finger at +me. His mouth was open but no sound came +from it. There was only the noise of my phantom +laughing.</p> + +<p>“He stood pointing and I watched my +name come like a dead shout from his lip. His +throat was alive with my name.</p> + +<p>“‘Mallare!’ it said.</p> + +<p>“I smiled at him. And I worshipped aloud +so that he might hear. I whispered to him to +come close—this lugubrious blasphemer who +wears my name in his throat. But his face +grew white. His arms dropped and he leaned +against the curtains. His eyes closed and he +fell. The Indifferent One remained. The smile +of Mallare remained contemplating the prostrate +ones.</p> + +<p>“The couch was still alive. But it was +dark. Her outline was already disintegrating. +Goliath’s fingers stared from her back.</p> + +<p><a name="png.192" id="png.192"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-two</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“‘The dark comedy ends,’ I thought. ‘My +phantom dissolves in a suicidal orgasm. And +the little monster beneath her collapses amid +too sudden memories. Finis! The revenge that +I so cleverly manipulated is accomplished. +And now Mallare disgorges a hallucination +become too nauseous. I have fouled this pretty +one so that my senses might abandon her. And +see, they whimper under me. The dumb one +lies in a corner and even his tears are ended. +And this sad eyed one, weary with intolerable +visions, and this one whose ears are filled with +voices—all of them whimper under me. But +I must feel no pity for them. Mallare rides +away like a star….</p> + +<p>“‘And she dissolves. Vale Rita! The red +and yellow dress again. Yes … yes—the +green and orange shawl again. Put them on. +Bravo Rita! Tragedy bows in a decorative +anti-climax. Little one, Mallare banishes thee +from His heaven where thou becamest too intimate. +Because thou sought to seduce His worshippers. +Vale!—Mallare disgorges thee. Spit +not at Me, little one, for I am only a smile. Spit +<a name="png.193" id="png.193"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>at this dumb one, this blubberer, who has forgotten +himself in a new sleep.’</p> + +<p class="tb">* * * * *</p> + +<p>“And Goliath weeps. She is gone and his +madness regrets her vanishing. He sits by day +and watches out of the window. At night I +have found him staring at the couch where he +lay with my shadow. He kneels beside it +with his grotesque arms flung out, embracing +memories.</p> + +<p>“His madness flatters me. Yet it is a thing +to be studied. His eyes are insane. They roll +continually in their sockets. He beats himself, +knocking his fists against his head. And I have +discovered him on the floor doubled up, his +head buried in his arms. He does not hear me +but remains, while I move around, immobile +as an idol. Yes, little Goliath is mad. But +he cannot recover the illusion whose memory +haunts his dark soul. He suffers. He beats his +head and his tears are futile. For she was mine. +Mallare created her. Mallare destroyed her. +There is a temptation at times to return her—not +<a name="png.194" id="png.194"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>to Mallare but to this poor dwarf who +expires under his grief.</p> + +<p>“I am tempted by his madness. Goliath +has found no God in his black heaven. I would +be his God and create for him as I may for +Myself. But I am wary of such altruism. He +is still My servant and looks after Me. But +My smile watches him with caution. His eyes +roll too much.</p> + +<p>“Since I rid myself of her, there has been +no mutiny. I sit and contemplate problems +that have grown too simple for me. And when +I am bored with studying Goliath’s madness, I +divert myself with my friend, the lodge brother. +A baffling imbecile who withholds himself +slyly. I have not yet come to an understanding +with him. There are too few facts to go on. +He is silent. He weeps. My name sleeps forever +on his lips. And once he babbled to me of +blood on my hands. These are the only realities +that form a key to him.</p> + +<p>“His presence remains a discomfort. We +sit and stare at each other. And I talk quietly +to him.</p> + +<p><a name="png.195" id="png.195"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-five</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“‘You are an inconsistent ass,’ I say. ‘You +were first an obvious pathologic symptom—an +illusory conscience born to adorn the grief of +my senses that fancied they had murdered Rita, +the phantom. But then when you found her +alive, what did you do? Did you vanish as, in +all logic, you should? For Rita was not murdered +and therefore where the necessity of a +conscience to celebrate her crime?</p> + +<p>“‘But you remained and grew more dolorous. +Then you are something else. I suspect +you of being the adroit ambassador the madmen +have sent into my heaven to plead their +cause. Yet why do you not plead? As an +ambassador you are a tongue-tied, sniveling +idiot. Therefore again, you escape logic. And +without logic my madness becomes slyly incomprehensible +to me.</p> + +<p>“‘We watch each other like two careful +wrestlers, eh? But what hold do you want? +Tell me and I will let you try your strength. +No—tears, nothing else. You weep, weep until +the sight of you is an impossible ennui.</p> + +<p><a name="png.196" id="png.196"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-six</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“‘Ah, perhaps you are a memory of Mallare. +Something forgotten. Logic approaches +you as I think. Something forgotten. And you +are overcome at my infidelity. Like Goliath +you mourn a vanished one. But there is this +difference. Whereas Goliath is real and the +object of his mourning is a phantom—you and +not I are the phantom. Yes, a phantom mourns +me. But speak then. I have no objection to +memory. Let me hear what this is all about +and I will admit what you say. I will admit it +all beforehand.</p> + +<p>“‘But no. You expect something else. You +expect Mallare to fall at your feet and embrace +you. I can see that in your eyes—a monotonous +expectation that grows ludicrous. Yes, your +tears grow ludicrous. I tolerate you for only +one purpose. You are a problem that diverts +me. For if I desired I could do with you as I +did with Rita. There are ways to make you +too nauseous.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, I might invent another hate for +myself. My hands might tear you as they tore +<a name="png.197" id="png.197"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-seven</span><span class="ns">] + </span>her. And then, filled with a fury against me, +you too might turn to Goliath. He is still mad, +my dwarf, and susceptible to the phantoms I +send him. Do you want to go to him as she did? +Aha! You wince. Remember then that Mallare +has it in his power to send you to his +dwarf, to make you take her place over his +terrible body. And Mallare will do this if you +annoy him too much. And then, sickened with +you as he was with her, he will disgorge another +shadow. Let us be frank about this. I warn +you.’</p> + +<p>“Thus I sit and talk quietly to this weeping +one. And when I stop I watch his lips +move with my name.</p> + +<p>“‘Mallare,’ they say.</p> + +<p>“This is his only answer to my overtures. +But I will win him over. He will come close +to my smile and kneel finally before me. He +will confess who he is and what my name means.</p> + +<p>“I grow tired. Goliath stands by his shrine +and weeps. He waits beside a couch as if it +were another Mallare able to give birth to a +<a name="png.198" id="png.198"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-eight</span><span class="ns">] + </span>phantom. Poor dwarf, unlike Mallare he has +not learned that suffering is an illusion, that +couches and Medusas are illusions. Unlike +Mallare there is no smile hanging its star above +him.</p> + +<p class="pgbrk">“Sleep comes. A forgotten world babbles +with shadows outside my windows. It is time +to say goodnight to my friend, the lodge brother. +Turn your tears to the cold moon, my friend. +Mallare goes away. Far away into a house +where he is alone.”</p> + + + + +<div class="illus pgbrk"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 168</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.201" id="png.201" href="images/drawing9a.png"><img + src="images/drawing9a-sml.png" width="466" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Ninth Drawing</p> +</div> + + +<h2><a name="png.203" id="png.203"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Sixty-nine</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>[IX]</h2> + + +<p class="start"><i><img class="initial" src="images/t.png" + width="143" height="200" alt="T" /><span class="start">he</span> last entry in the Journal +of Mallare—undated.</i></p> + +<p class="top2">“Talk to me, Mallare. +Tell me. Where am I? He +grows larger, this dumb one. +He moves away, growing +larger. He defies distance. +He grows too large to see. +But his tears remain.</p> + +<p>“Whisper to me, Mallare. He vanishes +and I must sneak after him. Call me back. +He is strange. His darkness lures me out of +my heaven. A little whisper will save me. You +will say to me, ‘Here is God.’ I will come back.</p> + +<p>“My words tire of him. He will not listen. +His tears! dear God, are You so human that +<a name="png.204" id="png.204"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventy</span><span class="ns">] + </span>they silence You? He has come into my loneliness. +And there is no use debating with him any +longer. Since he followed me home in the snow +his weeping has never wavered. I must talk +not to him but to Mallare. I must debate with +Mallare. But where is he, this Supreme One? +Mallare, where art thou?</p> + +<p>“Yes, my madness becomes an increasing +novelty. I remain. But I grow smaller. I am +too small. Where is my smile? It hides from +me. But his tears fall. This dumb one knows +how to weep. Alas, I drown.</p> + +<p>“Come to my side. I will whisper. I am +in love. Yes, do not be astonished. I am in +love with her. You recall her? She was like a +curtain fluttering before the door of enchantments. +Her breasts were like little blind faces +raised in prayer. Yes, Rita, my radiant one. +The phantom I constructed. The Phoenix that +arose in my soul. And that I slew again. I am +in love. But my magic no longer works. She +does not return.</p> + +<p><a name="png.205" id="png.205"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventy-one</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span>“I will whisper. I kneel with Goliath +beside the couch. Ah, Mallare, Mallare—I +am mad with love. I weep and beat my head. +And this other one calls me away. His shape +grows larger and his darkness lifts me toward +it. He pulls me from the couch. Talk to me, +Mallare. I am mad, but talk to me and I will +understand. Dear, shining Mallare … Tell +me ‘no’ and I will break my love. I will put +my fist through the window out of which I +watch for her. And it will be finished.</p> + +<p>“But I weep. My eyes have caught his +trick. I weep for her. Do you understand this? +My beautiful one whom I disgorged. Yes, +Rita. I die with love of her. I kneel by the +bed that knew her. Whisper back to me, Mallare, +that I am mad. And I will laugh. But +without you I grow too small to laugh.</p> + +<p>“There is pain in the shadows. I ask, +where am I? Go way, then, Mallare. Leave +me. I persist without Mallare. I remain. Let +me dissolve into this. Let me sprawl before +the door of enchantments. It is illusion. Let +<a name="png.206" id="png.206"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventy-two</span><span class="ns">] + </span>it be. She will come out. Rita, my vanished +one, come back to me. It is I who ask. Not the +Cold One, not the Indifferent One, not Mallare. +But I … I.</p> + +<p>“I will hold you in my arms. I will feed +your mist with kisses. My body will warm you. +I will be kind. I am not Mallare. He is gone. +He hides. He will not come back. I will kneel +before the door that sings with you. I am mad +with love. See, Rita, I am like Goliath. My +eyes roll. I am mad and you may come to me +without fear.</p> + +<p>“Windows break in me again. I remember +this from long ago. Hey, you blubbering +one! Do you want me! Hey, you brother sniveler, +come back! I laugh. Do you understand +this? A laughter without definitions. Ah, forgive +me. You sat and wept and I scolded. +Come back and sit again. I will fall at your +feet. Your eyes asked that. But now—where +are your feet? There is no shape. How am I +to know where? Come back. Here, sit in this +chair beside me. God! In silence, I utter my +<a name="png.207" id="png.207"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventy-three</span><span class="ns">] + </span>name. But it is a name that has flown away, +flown away.</p> + +<p>“Hey, you, bring me my name. The little +name, the one that made a pantomime on your +lips. The one that stared at me with letters. +Bring me my name, I will understand its +meaning. My other name has flown away. +Listen. Let me whisper. Bring it to me and I +will place it like a gate before the door of +enchantments. I will kneel to it. Windows +break in my head. Mallare … are you +Mallare? No, you are this. You are a babble +of words that stands on its nose.</p> + +<p>“Laugh at me, Mallare. Let me hear your +laugh far away. Or I go. Listen, Mallare. I +turn my back on this darkness. I do not kneel +at empty couches. No. I wait for you. You were +my God. You, the One who contemplated. +Yes, my arms are out to You. Come … a +whisper out of silences. Hey, Mallare. I dissolve. +I become a little phantom. A useless +little phantom. I drift like Rita. And they +attack me. Hands, voices and trembling ones. +They are brave because it is dark. Your worshippers, +<a name="png.208" id="png.208"></a><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">One Hundred Seventy-four</span><span class="ns">] + </span>Mallare, they turn on me. They break +windows. Pity me. This is the cross.</p> + + +<p class="ctr top2 pgbrk" title="Hebrew: Eli, eli, lama azavtani?">אלי, אלי למה עזבתני</p> + + + +<div class="illus"><span class="ns">[</span><span + class="pgmark">opp. 174</span><span class="ns">]<br + /></span><a name="png.209" id="png.209" href="images/drawing10a.png"><img + src="images/drawing10a-sml.png" width="439" height="700" + alt="" title="" /></a> + <p>Tenth Drawing</p> +</div> + +</div> + +<hr class="pg" /> + +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fantazius Mallare, by Ben Hecht + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FANTAZIUS MALLARE *** + +***** This file should be named 27261-h.htm or 27261-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/7/2/6/27261/ + +Produced by Suzanne Shell, David Wilson and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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