When we went through into the dining-room we were already drunk, and at the same time silent. I waited. Hansi waited, and Loulou, I thought, of the three of us, was the most incapable. Through slit skirts showed the possibility and, who knows, the imminence of violent disorder. Drunk with wine and fuck, Hansi cracked the whip and struck Loulou suddenly full in the face, so odiously that I cried out and that, silent, Loulou allowed to fall, her lips and cheeks marked with a long red line.
I enjoyed the innocence of unhappiness and of helplessness; could I blame myself for a sin which attracted me, which flooded me with pleasure precisely to the extent it brought me to despair?
George Bataille | Ma Mère
Photo: Matthew Stone | Body Language