DaY sIxTy FoUr
Day
Your Name: Marquis. Donatien
Suicidal Ideation: 6/10
Homicidal Ideation: 7/10
Amount of Sleep Last Night: I have a slight suspicion that someone is slipping a certain something into my daily medication. It's the only reason I can come up with that I have been able to sleep.
Any Lucid or Vivid Dreams? Explain.: ...Just her again.
Moods Experienced Today: Annoyance. Particularly since it has been far too long since feeling any satisfying pleasure dear god, is there no such thing as conjugal visits around this place???. Pride.
Mood Triggers: Finished a piece of work.
Significant Thoughts of the Day: I don't think you want to know.
Favorite Time of Day and Why: Free time. Finished a piece of work.
Least Favorite Time of Day and Why: Check-ups, of course, for obvious reasons.
How You Are Enjoying Your Therapy: Pssssh. Don't make me laugh.
Noticeable Improvements: And you ask the mad this?
Ah, at last!!! I have a gift for you, my darlings!
The Law of Talion
An upstanding burgher of the provence of Picardy, a descendant perhaps of one of those illustrious troubadours hailing from the banks of the Oise or the Somme who were draged from their torbid slumber in the shadows some ten or a dozen years ago by one of the great writers of our century, an upright, respectable burgher, as I was saying, once lived in the town of Saint-Quentin, rightly famed for the great men it has given to Literature - and lived there with honour too, he, his wife, and a female cousin three times removed who was a nun in one of the town's convents. The cousin three times removed was small, dark, had vivacious eyes, a pert face, a turned up nose, and a trim figure. She was afflicted with 22 years of age and had been a nun for four of them. Sister Petronille, such was her name, had moreover an attractive voice and a temperament which inclined more to the profane than to the sacred. As for Monsieur d'Esclaponville, which was the name of our good bourgeois, he was easy-going, cheerful and stout, aged about 28, extremely fond of his cousin and somewhat less of Madame d'Esclaponville, for he had been sharing her bed for ten years - and a habit of ten years' standing is decidedly fatal to the fires lit by Hymen. Madame d'Esclaponville - for we must pain her to the life: what would people think if we did not portray our characters to life in an age when only paintings are called for, to the point where even tragedies are not accepted for performance unless the art dealers can spot at least six good subjects to be got out of them? - Madame d'Esclaponville, I say, had hair more like straw than flax, a rather pallid complexion, quite pretty eyes, a figure of the fuller sort, and the kind of chubby cheeks which are generally said by the best people to make a person "look well".
Up to this point, Madame d'Esclaponville had been quite unaware that there is always a way of paying back an erring husband. Virtuous like her mother who had lived with the same man for eighty-three years without once being unfaithful to him, she was still sufficiently naive and innocent not to have any inkling of the appalling transgression which the casuists have named "adultery" but which more accommodating persons who take an easier line with everything call simply "dalliance". But a wife who has been deceived quickly learns to extract counsels of vengeance from her resentment, and since no one likes to be thought neglectful, there is nothing she can do that she will not do to deny other people an opportunity of querying her conduct in such matters. In the end, Madame d'Esclaponville became aware that her dear husband was paying over-frequent visits to the cousin three times removed. The green-eyed god of jealousy took possession of her heart. She observed, made enquiries, and discovered that there was hardly any news in Saint-Quentin quite so public as her husband's affair with Sister Petronille. Finally, sure of her ground, Madame d'Esclaponville informed her husband that his behaviour wounded her through and through, and that her conduct did not warrant such treatment and she begged him to give up his wicked ways.
"Wicked ways!" her husband replied coolly. "But don't you see, my dear, that I am working for my salvation by sleeping with my cousin? For she is a nun! The soul is cleansed by such sacred dealings, we draw close to the Supreme Being and the Holy Spirit is made flesh in us. Dearest, there is no sin in having relations with persons who have given themselves to God: they purify everything that passes between us and them and to seek their company is, in short, to unlock the gates to heavenly joy."
Madame d'Esclaponville, thoroughly unhappy with the outcome of her remonstrations, said nothing but vowed she would find a better way which would be more eloquent and quite unanswerable. The devilish thing of it is that women always have a way ready to hand: even when they are not over-attractive, they only have to say "yes!" and avengers come running from all directions.
Now there lived in the town a certain parish curate, the abbe du Bosquet, a man of lecherous tendencies who, at 30 or so, chased every woman in sight and was the reason why a forest of horns sprouted on the foreheads of the cuckolded husbands of Saint-Quentin. Madame d'Esclaponville got to know the curate and by degrees the curate got to know Madame d'Esclaponville. In short, both knew the other - and so intimately that they might have painted a full-length portrait of each other in such detail that there would have been no mistaking either. When a month had gone by, people began making a point of congratulating the unfortunate d'Esclaponville who regularly boasted that he alone had been preserved from the curate's formidable amorous endeavours, adding that his was the only head in the whole of Saint-Quentin which the rogue had left smooth.
"No doubt about it," d'Esclaponville would say to people who spoke to him on the matter. "My wife is as chaste as Lucretia - you could tell me the opposite until you're blue in the face and I'd still never believe it."
"Come with me," said one of his friends, "just you come along with me and I'll make you see for yourself. And then we'll see if you have doubts."
D'Esclaponville allowed himself to be led off and his friend took him half a league outside the town to a deserted spot where the Somme, squeezing between two new-green hedges covered with flowers, creates a pool where the townsfolk come and bathe. But since the lovers' tryst had been fixed for a time before bathing ordinarily begins, our hapless husband suffered the vexation of seeing his honest wife and his rival arrive one after the other, with no one to disturb them.
"Well," the friend said to d'Esclaponville, "I imagine your forehead is beginning to itch?"
"Not at all," said the bourgeois, though he rubbed it involuntarily. "Perhaps she's come to be confessed."
"In that case, we'd better stay to the end," the friend said.
They did not have long to wait. Almost the moment he crept into the shade of the sweet-smelling hedge, the abbe du Bosquet removed everything which stood between him and the sensual contact which he had in mind and, perhaps for the thirtieth time, piously set about the task of placing good, honest Monsieur d'Esclaponville squarely in the ranks of the rest of the town's husbands.
"Well, are you convinced now?" the friend said.
"Let's get away from here," d'Esclaponville said bitterly. "I'm so convinced that I could kill that swine of a priest. Still, the price I'd have to pay for doing him in would be far more than he's worth. Let's go back - and please keep quiet about this."
D'Esclaponville returned home with his mind in a whirl. A little while later, his mild-mannered wife came and made as if to sit down to supper at his chaste side.
"One moment, my sweet," said the bourgeois in a fury, "ever since I was a boy, I always swore to my father that I would never sup with harlots."
"With harlots?" Madame d'Esclaponville replied mildly. "My dear, your words astound me. What can I have done to warrant your displeasure?"
"I'll tell you what has incurred my displeasure, you slut! It's what you went off and did this afternoon by the pool with our curate!"
"Heavens," the sweet woman replied, "is that all? Is that all you have to say?"
"What do mean, dammit, is that all?"
"But, my dear, I merely took your advice. Didn't you tell me that there was no risk in sleeping with people of the cloth, that the soul is purified by such sacred relations, that we draw close to the Supreme Being, that the Holy Spirit is then made flesh in us and, in short, it is the way to unlock the gates to heavenly joy? Well, dearest, I simply did as you said, and that makes me definitely no harlot, but a saint! And I can tell you that if there's one pure soul of God who has the power to unlock, to use your words, the gates to heavenly joy, then it must be the curate, for I never saw a bigger key."
What do think, mon amis?
((ooc; Taken from a collection of the Marquis de Sade's work put together and translated by David Coward.))
Your Name: Marquis. Donatien
Suicidal Ideation: 6/10
Homicidal Ideation: 7/10
Amount of Sleep Last Night: I have a slight suspicion that someone is slipping a certain something into my daily medication. It's the only reason I can come up with that I have been able to sleep.
Any Lucid or Vivid Dreams? Explain.: ...Just her again.
Moods Experienced Today: Annoyance. Particularly since it has been far too long since feeling any satisfying pleasure dear god, is there no such thing as conjugal visits around this place???. Pride.
Mood Triggers: Finished a piece of work.
Significant Thoughts of the Day: I don't think you want to know.
Favorite Time of Day and Why: Free time. Finished a piece of work.
Least Favorite Time of Day and Why: Check-ups, of course, for obvious reasons.
How You Are Enjoying Your Therapy: Pssssh. Don't make me laugh.
Noticeable Improvements: And you ask the mad this?
Ah, at last!!! I have a gift for you, my darlings!
The Law of Talion
An upstanding burgher of the provence of Picardy, a descendant perhaps of one of those illustrious troubadours hailing from the banks of the Oise or the Somme who were draged from their torbid slumber in the shadows some ten or a dozen years ago by one of the great writers of our century, an upright, respectable burgher, as I was saying, once lived in the town of Saint-Quentin, rightly famed for the great men it has given to Literature - and lived there with honour too, he, his wife, and a female cousin three times removed who was a nun in one of the town's convents. The cousin three times removed was small, dark, had vivacious eyes, a pert face, a turned up nose, and a trim figure. She was afflicted with 22 years of age and had been a nun for four of them. Sister Petronille, such was her name, had moreover an attractive voice and a temperament which inclined more to the profane than to the sacred. As for Monsieur d'Esclaponville, which was the name of our good bourgeois, he was easy-going, cheerful and stout, aged about 28, extremely fond of his cousin and somewhat less of Madame d'Esclaponville, for he had been sharing her bed for ten years - and a habit of ten years' standing is decidedly fatal to the fires lit by Hymen. Madame d'Esclaponville - for we must pain her to the life: what would people think if we did not portray our characters to life in an age when only paintings are called for, to the point where even tragedies are not accepted for performance unless the art dealers can spot at least six good subjects to be got out of them? - Madame d'Esclaponville, I say, had hair more like straw than flax, a rather pallid complexion, quite pretty eyes, a figure of the fuller sort, and the kind of chubby cheeks which are generally said by the best people to make a person "look well".
Up to this point, Madame d'Esclaponville had been quite unaware that there is always a way of paying back an erring husband. Virtuous like her mother who had lived with the same man for eighty-three years without once being unfaithful to him, she was still sufficiently naive and innocent not to have any inkling of the appalling transgression which the casuists have named "adultery" but which more accommodating persons who take an easier line with everything call simply "dalliance". But a wife who has been deceived quickly learns to extract counsels of vengeance from her resentment, and since no one likes to be thought neglectful, there is nothing she can do that she will not do to deny other people an opportunity of querying her conduct in such matters. In the end, Madame d'Esclaponville became aware that her dear husband was paying over-frequent visits to the cousin three times removed. The green-eyed god of jealousy took possession of her heart. She observed, made enquiries, and discovered that there was hardly any news in Saint-Quentin quite so public as her husband's affair with Sister Petronille. Finally, sure of her ground, Madame d'Esclaponville informed her husband that his behaviour wounded her through and through, and that her conduct did not warrant such treatment and she begged him to give up his wicked ways.
"Wicked ways!" her husband replied coolly. "But don't you see, my dear, that I am working for my salvation by sleeping with my cousin? For she is a nun! The soul is cleansed by such sacred dealings, we draw close to the Supreme Being and the Holy Spirit is made flesh in us. Dearest, there is no sin in having relations with persons who have given themselves to God: they purify everything that passes between us and them and to seek their company is, in short, to unlock the gates to heavenly joy."
Madame d'Esclaponville, thoroughly unhappy with the outcome of her remonstrations, said nothing but vowed she would find a better way which would be more eloquent and quite unanswerable. The devilish thing of it is that women always have a way ready to hand: even when they are not over-attractive, they only have to say "yes!" and avengers come running from all directions.
Now there lived in the town a certain parish curate, the abbe du Bosquet, a man of lecherous tendencies who, at 30 or so, chased every woman in sight and was the reason why a forest of horns sprouted on the foreheads of the cuckolded husbands of Saint-Quentin. Madame d'Esclaponville got to know the curate and by degrees the curate got to know Madame d'Esclaponville. In short, both knew the other - and so intimately that they might have painted a full-length portrait of each other in such detail that there would have been no mistaking either. When a month had gone by, people began making a point of congratulating the unfortunate d'Esclaponville who regularly boasted that he alone had been preserved from the curate's formidable amorous endeavours, adding that his was the only head in the whole of Saint-Quentin which the rogue had left smooth.
"No doubt about it," d'Esclaponville would say to people who spoke to him on the matter. "My wife is as chaste as Lucretia - you could tell me the opposite until you're blue in the face and I'd still never believe it."
"Come with me," said one of his friends, "just you come along with me and I'll make you see for yourself. And then we'll see if you have doubts."
D'Esclaponville allowed himself to be led off and his friend took him half a league outside the town to a deserted spot where the Somme, squeezing between two new-green hedges covered with flowers, creates a pool where the townsfolk come and bathe. But since the lovers' tryst had been fixed for a time before bathing ordinarily begins, our hapless husband suffered the vexation of seeing his honest wife and his rival arrive one after the other, with no one to disturb them.
"Well," the friend said to d'Esclaponville, "I imagine your forehead is beginning to itch?"
"Not at all," said the bourgeois, though he rubbed it involuntarily. "Perhaps she's come to be confessed."
"In that case, we'd better stay to the end," the friend said.
They did not have long to wait. Almost the moment he crept into the shade of the sweet-smelling hedge, the abbe du Bosquet removed everything which stood between him and the sensual contact which he had in mind and, perhaps for the thirtieth time, piously set about the task of placing good, honest Monsieur d'Esclaponville squarely in the ranks of the rest of the town's husbands.
"Well, are you convinced now?" the friend said.
"Let's get away from here," d'Esclaponville said bitterly. "I'm so convinced that I could kill that swine of a priest. Still, the price I'd have to pay for doing him in would be far more than he's worth. Let's go back - and please keep quiet about this."
D'Esclaponville returned home with his mind in a whirl. A little while later, his mild-mannered wife came and made as if to sit down to supper at his chaste side.
"One moment, my sweet," said the bourgeois in a fury, "ever since I was a boy, I always swore to my father that I would never sup with harlots."
"With harlots?" Madame d'Esclaponville replied mildly. "My dear, your words astound me. What can I have done to warrant your displeasure?"
"I'll tell you what has incurred my displeasure, you slut! It's what you went off and did this afternoon by the pool with our curate!"
"Heavens," the sweet woman replied, "is that all? Is that all you have to say?"
"What do mean, dammit, is that all?"
"But, my dear, I merely took your advice. Didn't you tell me that there was no risk in sleeping with people of the cloth, that the soul is purified by such sacred relations, that we draw close to the Supreme Being, that the Holy Spirit is then made flesh in us and, in short, it is the way to unlock the gates to heavenly joy? Well, dearest, I simply did as you said, and that makes me definitely no harlot, but a saint! And I can tell you that if there's one pure soul of God who has the power to unlock, to use your words, the gates to heavenly joy, then it must be the curate, for I never saw a bigger key."
What do think, mon amis?
((ooc; Taken from a collection of the Marquis de Sade's work put together and translated by David Coward.))