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The couple, a matter of eunuchs
Desire of a couple and of each other: a story of freedom and cage, of wildness and domestication, of pleasure and fear.
Requirement of a certain desire
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The couple, a studied formula of non-desire
The couple is an affair of eunuchs. Even when it is marked by love, especially when it is touched by love, the couple is a matter of non-desire. This love becomes a repulsive thing, particularly revolting. It is the love of the faithful; the love of those who renounce themselves. The love of those who have accepted their fate and finally bowed their heads. It is the love of those who are now only alone in secret, inside themselves, each on their own, now feeling unable to be alone in the open.
They are the living dead of their own desire. Their nights especially, become the places of wandering of their worried or defeated spirits, refugees inside themselves.
For this body that pretends to sleep next to another, there is nothing more to do. This other body is no longer accessible.
Les couples qui se vantent de l’être ne font pas cet amour qu’ils chérissent tant, même quand ils le font. Lorsqu’ensemble ou tour à tour chacun des deux a joui, le désir pour autant ne s’est pas incarné. On voudrait bien croire que c’est son propre désir qui dans ces embrassements fougueux de quelques minutes vite écoulées, s’est manifesté. Mais non, ce n’est là qu’un désir commun, sans personnalité, venu satisfaire l’imagerie que toute société veut que chacun de ses sujets ait dans la tête. Ce n’est pas le désir secret de chaque être, libre dans son infinie violence et qui sous cette forme pleine, seul existe.
And it is certainly not this wretched Christianity or any other religious twaddle that is the cause of this intimate drama, the drama of dramas in fact. No, it is not the sulphurous ban that would be missing from the basic excitement so that the insatiable and true appetite is summoned for a real good time here and now. It would really be too simple if it were so. It's not a case of the devil and the good Lord, unfortunately. This is a story of freedom and cage, of wildness and domestication, of pleasure and fear. It is the story that nature has written in us.
Gone, too, is the superficial romance of guilt, lies and betrayal, of cinema and books. To limit secret desire to intrigues would be to remain irreparably on the surface, thinking to probe human relations by scrutinizing the aerial part of a monumental iceberg.
Desire and secrecy, the only couple that holds together
The intimacy of oneself to oneself is the vast zone of secrecy that will never be known by anyone. It is impossible for others to access it even if all the evidence of its existence is revealed, laid bare for the whole world to see. This pseudo-truth of unveiling the facts only results in burying the secret further. The evidence, the testimonies wither and evaporate once produced in the open air. For these reasons, all crimes go unpunished and likewise, all desires are hidden. The unfathomable lies in the negation of what our world would like to be clear and limpid. Once Pandora's box is opened, we realize that nothing comes out; nothing visible to the naked eye. Yet everything is there, in these heads that speak only to themselves.
Consciousness is much better built, much more solid than the unconscious, if it exists at all. And why should it exist? Consciousness does not need it. Everything is known, nothing is ignored in the depths of a thinking being. New drama: we know.
We know everything that makes up the meanders of our mind, that draws its curves. We are not ignorant of anything in its recesses. The individual who thinks is a potential criminal, because he knows. And what he knows, he will never admit to his fellow men. Yet they are precisely his fellow men, identical to him in every way. That is why he will not tell them anything. We all know that. Comedy is then essential, without which there is no society. Those who would like to change it are hopelessly naive. It is impossible to stay together without the power of this comedy. One would have to keep nothing to oneself. One would no longer spend one's time agitating and doing, but saying. Saying everything, all the time, in every microsecond, like a surveillance camera must not miss any image of reality that its lens frames. So we summarize, we omit, and in doing so, we keep our being and its secrets intact.
These famous secrets are nevertheless visible, audible, everywhere, all the time, on the Internet even more than elsewhere. But they have no place in the life, the social life that unites us. It doesn't matter if they are revealed elsewhere, right next door, on a page that we consult, in a daring confidence during a dinner, in a circle of friends. Whatever the case, we are not witnessing the shameless expression of their essence live. If we do, society disappears at that very moment. We enter into the connivance, the drinking, the crime, the orgy, the artistic madness; we separate ourselves from the world as societies want it to function.
No common biological clock for everyone's desires
As soon as the expression of the secret is shared, we return to the envelope that befits us and society takes its rights in place of nature. It was only a parenthesis. We forget our companions, pretend we hardly know them and that is indeed the case, and rediscover the abandoned codes of propriety and the gesture of an animal that has consented to be trained. Because this strange and double behaviour, whatever some people say, we do not undergo it. We choose it totally. For how would we know how to live free of social constraint, under the permanent threat of those who would not have decided to live at the same time this moment? Those who would have chosen to decry it rather than join it. Because if the desire is identical, the time is not the same for everyone. We do not know how to let go of our chains in unison. Again, that would be too simple. There must be judges at the time when there are culprits. Able-bodied judges, standing on their own two legs, shouting and shouting at those who are living this moment in another time. At the time of other moments, these same judges will be the guilty ones, in their turn crawling in the black mud of their secrets. And we who enjoyed for real and others who did the same, will judge them severely as well. Thus goes the perpetual loop of social dynamics. Our apnoea in the wild world only lasts as long as we can keep a reserve of air in our mouths. We must inevitably return to the superficial appearance of things to take a civil breath and regain our footing on the edge of the unfathomable pond.
Could we do otherwise? Could we never come to the surface of our lives and remain for the rest of our lives beyond the reach of the social bark that has come to howl in our ears and within the pack where we too howl? Is it possible to be true to the world that we make and that makes us, without necessarily falling under its blows and in its nets? Under our own blows and in our own nets?
Of course, one can, like a hero of Sade, become intensely criminal. But is it bearable to allow oneself such profound savagery, such absolute barbarity for the being who questions himself? Is he not already too firmly entrenched in his moral prejudices not to simply risk losing his strength in wanting to become what he cannot easily and effortlessly be? To be freely a monster does not seem so easily within the reach of all. This is obviously deeply distressing. It is a bitter realization for the civilized being to discover that he is unable to face his impotence to live free of all restraints. Education is the stifler of violence; that is what it is there for.
So what is left for the unfortunate, educated and raised under the umbrella of an ethic of the common good, to be able to live free and give back the place they deserve to the secrets which, in the shadow of the polishing of his animal temperament, are reduced to internal debates?
The fantasy of course, the creation sometimes and a few moments stolen from a passing animality.
Faut-il pour autant se résoudre à se contenter de ce maigre programme et renoncer à connaître dans sa chair ce que la nature nous intime de vivre chaque minute ?
The violence of surpassing oneself is nowadays ridiculously staged in a few orgasmic seconds of sporting or spectacular feats for those who can afford it. For the others, it is a condemnation without appeal to a miserable identification, through shouts and vociferations of encouragement, with the one who lives these moments in their place. Let those who find themselves vicariously through this pitiful planning of their desires be content. So much the worse. For those who feel more demanding, they will have to look elsewhere.
What a low intensity of sensations and emotions that runs through our ordinary lives!
What a desert of pleasures and enjoyments! Shouldn't they be the products of every moment?
A perfect world between anonymity and affinity
Why then do we live endowed with this so-called superior brain if it is not to attain to felicity more easily than the animal? Is the pleasure of creation enough? Does intellectual satisfaction alone satisfy us? And are our poor physical pleasures equal to the powerful hegemonic desire that torments us? Certainly not. Love, what we call it, this poor second-best solution knitted with tenderness, distances us from our impulses in a dullness dumbed down by softness. Worse still is the result of sentimental union: hay for cows caged in their barns, no longer free enough to go and watch the trains go by with a dull eye.
In this case, if we cannot be, we must become.
Superior brains and humor must be at least as hard as an attractive pussy or an unhooded glans. The poverty of an orgy between idiots, or to put it less cruelly, between mental defectives, brings the same dreamless ejaculate to the face as the moment of love of a couple devoid of secret ambition. Could a society become more intense than a beautiful, high and sexual solitude?
« Son cul sentait la merde. Quoi de plus merveilleux ? ». Sade, en moins bien me direz-vous. C’est sûr. Mais la voie, par ce grand homme enjôlé, a été ouverte autrement que par des épicuriens de salon. Cherchons plus loin ; ailleurs que dans la littérature, mais bien plutôt dans la réalité toute crue d’un cul merdeux. Qu’y trouve-t-on que nos plaisirs secrets attendent, intimement partagés par tous, mais non admis sous le ciel du grand jour de la conversation sociale ? De la merde ou du moins le reliquat odorant de son passage ou de sa proximité. En quoi la merde, contre toute attente officiellement admise, nous plaît-elle et peut-être même, nous manque-t-elle ? Qu’elle puisse nous exciter dans certains contextes n’est pas une nouveauté. Ce qui est définitivement moins abordé, c’est pourquoi le désir ou du moins le fantasme extrême est condamné au silence. Forcé de se terrer, cachés dans l’alcôve sale de l’intimité débridée, Pourquoi tient-on furieusement, au prix de notre honte et de notre honneur, à maintenir pareil secret de polichinelle ? La réponse est vraisemblablement là, coincée quelque part entre les deux figures fondamentales du Général et du Particulier. Entre ces ceux-là, je me demande bien en effet qui nous sommes. Sans doute les malheureux schizophrènes humanimaux, reliquats d’expériences ratées, détritus abandonnés des échecs perpétuels du bon Dr Moreau sur son île.
