By Georges Bataille
Set opposed to the backdrop of Europe's slide into Fascism, "Blue of Noon" is a blackly compelling account of depravity and violence. As its narrator lurches despairingly from urban to urban in a surreal sexual and psychological nightmare of squalor, sadism and drunken encounters, his inner cave in mirrors the scuffling with and marching at the streets outdoor. Exploring the darkish forces underneath the outside of civilization, this can be a novel torn among picking out with history's sufferers and being seduced by way of the giant glamour of its bad victors, and is likely one of the 20th century's nice nihilist works.
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Extra info for Blue of Noon
I had the feeling that I'd forgotten something - I'd known what it was a second earlier, and I absolutely had to re call it. I felt like speaking with greater thoroughness. I felt like speaking louder. I was aware of my utter help lessness . I was getting completely drunk. In his concern, Michel became more and more awkward. He was sweating and miserable. The more he pondered, the more beyond him everything seemed. "I tried to twist her wrist, " he said. " " "Once. Right here . " ANTONIO'S STORY 89 I was undergoing heavy stress.
Did I love you? Of course I did! Did you love me? I never once believed it . . Today, as I write, fierce joy has brought the blood rushing to my head so crazily that I feel like singing myself. On the same day, Xenie (in the despair to which my attitude had reduced her, she had resolved to spend at least one night by my side) was about to enter the sunlit room. I could hear the splashing sounds she was making in the bathroom. Perhaps the young girl had not under stood my last words . I felt no regret about them.
And then, as the moment approaches, standing in front of his harvest, he draws himself erect and, as I now am doing" - with no transition, this ludicro us, laughable character became noble: that frail voice, that slick voice of his was imbued with ice - " he pointlessly raises his arms to heaven, waiting for the lightning to strike him - him, and his arms . . " As he spoke these words he let his own arms fall. He had become the perfect emblem of some dreadful despair.