Lord Henry Wotton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
epigrammatical) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tushanshu2013-02-07 06:43 am
epigrammatical) wrote in tushanshu2013-02-07 06:43 am
II. metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour.
[Henry is leaning back in the chair in front of his computer and he holds a book bound in yellow paper in his slender hands. From the angle at which he holds it, the title is not quite visible. ]
A flawed memory is an inconvenience, though a perfect memory is a curse. But had my memory been better, I would sooner have recalled what this place reminds me of. Oh, I could perceive from the beginning that it is very like the fantasies that prompt a man to fill his house with blue china—and there is something as well of the mechanical dreams of M. Verne and his kind.
But no, it was not merely a question of aesthetics—and in fact the answer has been in my jacket-pocket the entire time. [He indicates the book. Sharp eyes can now see the title: À Rebours.] This has been called a poisonous book, a thing of monstrous metaphors, a philosophy of the senses. It is a tale of a young Frenchman and his pursuit of a completely aesthetic mode of being, an attempt to drown his soul with earthly sensations. Certain drier eras—such as my own—do find such a prospect immoral, but that is only because they are ashamed of what they truly desire.
To the point, however—our Parisian decides that a certain carpet in his household requires a contrast, so he purchases a living tortoise to place upon the carpet. The contrast is insufficient, and so—
[He opens the book, flips pages, and begins to read.]
"He therefore decided to glaze the shell of the tortoise with gold.
"The tortoise, just returned by the lapidary, shone brilliantly, softening the tones of the rug and casting on it a gorgeous reflection which resembled the irradiations from the scales of a barbaric Visigoth shield.
"At first Des Esseintes was enchanted with this effect. Then he reflected that this gigantic jewel was only in outline, that it would not really be complete until it had been incrusted with rare stones."
[He closes the book.]
It is a charming image, is it not? A living jewel to roam one's sitting room. Is this city, then, a jewel on the back of the tortoise that bears it, created for the pleasure of some Gargantuan aesthete? [A pause.] I confess, I sincerely hope not, for the tortoise of Des Esseintes perishes under the weight of its splendid burden.
[OOC: Wikipedia on the book, if you're curious. And for real gluttons for punishment, the text itself, which is less expurgated than other versions I've seen online, but which may still contain bowdlerizations.]
A flawed memory is an inconvenience, though a perfect memory is a curse. But had my memory been better, I would sooner have recalled what this place reminds me of. Oh, I could perceive from the beginning that it is very like the fantasies that prompt a man to fill his house with blue china—and there is something as well of the mechanical dreams of M. Verne and his kind.
But no, it was not merely a question of aesthetics—and in fact the answer has been in my jacket-pocket the entire time. [He indicates the book. Sharp eyes can now see the title: À Rebours.] This has been called a poisonous book, a thing of monstrous metaphors, a philosophy of the senses. It is a tale of a young Frenchman and his pursuit of a completely aesthetic mode of being, an attempt to drown his soul with earthly sensations. Certain drier eras—such as my own—do find such a prospect immoral, but that is only because they are ashamed of what they truly desire.
To the point, however—our Parisian decides that a certain carpet in his household requires a contrast, so he purchases a living tortoise to place upon the carpet. The contrast is insufficient, and so—
[He opens the book, flips pages, and begins to read.]
"He therefore decided to glaze the shell of the tortoise with gold.
"The tortoise, just returned by the lapidary, shone brilliantly, softening the tones of the rug and casting on it a gorgeous reflection which resembled the irradiations from the scales of a barbaric Visigoth shield.
"At first Des Esseintes was enchanted with this effect. Then he reflected that this gigantic jewel was only in outline, that it would not really be complete until it had been incrusted with rare stones."
[He closes the book.]
It is a charming image, is it not? A living jewel to roam one's sitting room. Is this city, then, a jewel on the back of the tortoise that bears it, created for the pleasure of some Gargantuan aesthete? [A pause.] I confess, I sincerely hope not, for the tortoise of Des Esseintes perishes under the weight of its splendid burden.
[OOC: Wikipedia on the book, if you're curious. And for real gluttons for punishment, the text itself, which is less expurgated than other versions I've seen online, but which may still contain bowdlerizations.]