The Necrophiliac Read Online Free PDF Page A

watched. Especially by service people: cleaning ladies, concierges, neighbourhood merchants. And cops, of course. Especially the cops.
March 15, 19...
    Herodotus teaches us that women of quality “after their death are not delivered directly to the embalmers, no more than very beautiful or well-renowned women. They aren’t given up until after three or four days. This is done in order to avoid the embalmers taking advantage of these women.”
    Scattered in the human chronicle, the most ancient of commentaries on this inoffensive passion that no one calls perversity. But “three or four days” is so naive . . . !
May 10, 19...
    Yesterday, one of my clients, a young and charming pianist, tried to seduce me. We were having tea, seated on the little Empire sofa in the library, a piece of furniture that’s not very big. I gathered together in mine the two beautiful wandering hands and I gave them back to their owner smiling, as if refusing a pair of birds.
    â€œOh . . . Lucien. So you’re not into boys? I thought that . . .”
    â€œBut of course I like boys. And even girls too.”
    Not able really to say to him, “I would love your eyes sunken in, your lips silenced, your sex frozen, if only you were dead; unfortunately, you have the bad taste to be alive,” I hypocritically added, “But I am not single, and I wouldn’t want to give occasion for any complications.” Too bad.
    He believed with much kindness.
June 7, 19...
    Hardly a day goes by that I am not reminded of Suzanne, her breasts with their large, beige aureoles, her sunken-in belly suspended like a tent between the two points of her hips, her sex of which the mere memory is sufficient to stir my own. Today, the ivory of her bones, with what marine life has it integrated?
July 1, 19...
    The visit from the unmarried woman from Ivry wore me out completely and I only want to sleep alone.
    I discovered her tomb by chance as I was going for a stroll in the cemetery to unwind: a completely fresh grave, not even given a name yet. Curious, I asked myself what it might contain and promised to return at night. Now, the grave contained a pine coffin of inferior quality — exactly the type that is the most convenient — in which reclined a woman whom I brought home without trouble. In all my loves there is an ineffable moment, the one in which, for the first time, I discover the face of a companion whose destiny I am granted, when I lean avidly over the traits that soon will become familiar to me.
    She must have been between forty and forty-five, but it’s true that death restores youthfulness. It was a common woman, probably a seamstress, for her left index finger was hardened and picked all over with a thousand needle pricks. I noticed also that the skin on her hands was too big for the bones: thick as if waterlogged, it was encircled by a host of heavy folds. This woman was brown as a Gitane: her eyelids, the points of her breasts, her sex had this deep, somewhat violet swarthiness that is found in the velvet of certain mushrooms or in hydrangeas touched by frost. Opulent tufts of hair with the lustre of astrakhan fur dressed her armpits, her pubis. And above all, she had an extraordinary moustache: two black commas, thin and supple, framed her mouth, descending to the bottom of her cheeks, cruel as those of Genghis Khan. An original person, no doubt. I couldn’t help but notice, for that matter, that this wasn’t the least of her originalities. She was a virgin, or so I discovered, in the very second that she ceased to be. Was she afraid of men or did she hate them? Had she preferred women? With this mustache like the lash of a whip . . . With that extraordinarily virile part of her femininity: a hard, strong almond overhanging her nymph’s fold . . .
    My Ivry virgin had, above all, a confounding particularity. One might say that in death she avenged herself of her long abstinence. Never have I