9 October 2013

from Cocteau's Le Livre Blanc

Nothing embarrasses me when talking about sexual relationships, but modesty holds me back when I come to describing the tortures which I am capable of suffering. So I will describe them in a few lines and not mention them again. Love breaks me in two. Even when I am calm I live in constant fear that this calm might cease and this anxiety prevents me from enjoying its pleasures. The slightest setback ruins everything. I find it impossible not to see the worst side of things. Nothing prevents me from losing my foothold, even if I have only slipped. Waiting is one form of torture; possession is another, through fear of losing what I possess.

Doubt caused me to pass wakeful nights walking up and down, lying on the floor, hoping the floor would sink down, eternally down. I promised myself that I would not say a word about my fears. As soon as I was in H's presence I plied him with complaints and questions. He said nothing. This silence either drove me into a frenzy or else made me weep. I accused him of hating me, of wanting to kill me. He knew very well that replies were useless and that I would start again the next day.


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