Tanith Lee quotage
Jul. 5th, 2006 10:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieNo one writes quite like Tanith Lee. I've finished her brilliant "Gods are Thirsty" about a French revolutionary Camille Desmoulins, and as always I am struck by her dreamlike, intense writing style.
Behind the cut is one of my favorite parts of the book. It's a whole part of a chapter so it's behind the cut for length. Nontheless, it's really worth reading. This is near the end, when Camille is in prison, knows he will be condemned and has just found out that his wife has been arrested as well.
Oh, Lucile-oh, Lucile-what have I done to you? No, it isn't true. It can't be true. It's true. One more life. What do they care? One more doll for the guillotine. It isn't real, it's only play. After the blade comes down, we get up, entirely in one piece, and walk off.
Oh Lucile, Lucile, Lucile.
God in heavn help me-if theire is a God, help me. Oh, my love, my Lucile. Oh, someone hear me and help me! Help me!
What have I done? How did this happen?
No. Be calm. Be calm and think. I must find the answer. There must be an answer.
No there's no answer.
They'll kill me. They'll kill her. And the child will be left-our little child-left stranded on this empty beach by the sea of blood I brought to Paris.
I remember that dream-the baby, my son, losing one eye-symbol: He would lose me. Killed by my cousins (Ah! le coup des cousins). But Robespierre-he couldn't hurt her-it isn't possible. My death, but not hers too.
Oh Lucile, Lucile.
(Quiet in there, damn you.)
Someone outside. Will he help me? No money left. What can I offer? Nonexistent spoils of the Revolution. Bribed-was I bribed? Of course. Never. Oh, God, let me think.
She's innocent. They'll know it. They'll look at her, and they won't be able-
But that doesn't matter to them. They don't have feelings, can't pity, can't love. They're not men. No hearts, no genitals, no minds, no souls-
Souls-who has? They don't exist. Danton's right. There's nothing. Nothing for me, and nothing for her.
Just-the flash of the blade. The pain. Is there pain? Will I feel it? She? It's too quick. You don't feel the pain till you're dead, and by then-by then you can't feel anything.
I knew I'd die. I sentenced myself. But now I know it's true. It's real. It will happen.
No, it isn't going to happen. It's a mistake.
And Lucile is at home. She's wearing a pink dress, or the silky gray. The gleam of it, over her soft full bosom, and her warm silken waist, and her hair dusted by sunlight-is there sunlight there? Yes-and she's holding the child. he's laughing and playing with a ribbon she's given him. His hands always amaze me, so small, but already able to do so much. This July he'll be two years old; I won't see that. But nothing will happen to her. She'll grieve. My darling, she'll cry for me-but it will ease. She'll live and she'll tell my son about me. All the best things, none of the flaws. Sweet deception, silly girl. Your father, she'll say. His second name is Camille-she's going to forget to call him Horatius. She's going to call him by my name; she'll make me out a hero. Handsome and good and a genius. He died for his country.
I don't want to ie, Lucile. I don't want to face that ride, that open place, that thin black thing on the sky. I don't want death. I want to come home and live with you.
(Screech of a lock, door slamming; you feel the vibration through every stone and bone. Earlier, you could hear the women washing their clothes at the trough in the yard, chattering. But they weren't real women, they didn't exist.)
The jury may find for us. The verdict hasn't been decided. But someone said they were already setting up the type for the printers: Guilty.
Fouquier lied.
He lied.
They can't touch her.
Christ, but they will-they have to-everything innocent has to be cut down. I've poisoned her with my death. And she won't even try to fight them. She'll say, No matter. It's day-clear. They've killed my Camille, and I don't want to stay here alone. She's so beautiful. So tender and sweet and lovely. Her skin, that holds the light inside it, and her eyes that make the light-all that can't be ended in a second. Live, Lucile. Live.
Don't touch her. Don't touch her! Christ, let me get out-let me escape and kill them all-help me, Oh, God, help me. Nothing exists but this prison. There's no escape, no help, no miracle.
Only this.
Behind the cut is one of my favorite parts of the book. It's a whole part of a chapter so it's behind the cut for length. Nontheless, it's really worth reading. This is near the end, when Camille is in prison, knows he will be condemned and has just found out that his wife has been arrested as well.
Oh, Lucile-oh, Lucile-what have I done to you? No, it isn't true. It can't be true. It's true. One more life. What do they care? One more doll for the guillotine. It isn't real, it's only play. After the blade comes down, we get up, entirely in one piece, and walk off.
Oh Lucile, Lucile, Lucile.
God in heavn help me-if theire is a God, help me. Oh, my love, my Lucile. Oh, someone hear me and help me! Help me!
What have I done? How did this happen?
No. Be calm. Be calm and think. I must find the answer. There must be an answer.
No there's no answer.
They'll kill me. They'll kill her. And the child will be left-our little child-left stranded on this empty beach by the sea of blood I brought to Paris.
I remember that dream-the baby, my son, losing one eye-symbol: He would lose me. Killed by my cousins (Ah! le coup des cousins). But Robespierre-he couldn't hurt her-it isn't possible. My death, but not hers too.
Oh Lucile, Lucile.
(Quiet in there, damn you.)
Someone outside. Will he help me? No money left. What can I offer? Nonexistent spoils of the Revolution. Bribed-was I bribed? Of course. Never. Oh, God, let me think.
She's innocent. They'll know it. They'll look at her, and they won't be able-
But that doesn't matter to them. They don't have feelings, can't pity, can't love. They're not men. No hearts, no genitals, no minds, no souls-
Souls-who has? They don't exist. Danton's right. There's nothing. Nothing for me, and nothing for her.
Just-the flash of the blade. The pain. Is there pain? Will I feel it? She? It's too quick. You don't feel the pain till you're dead, and by then-by then you can't feel anything.
I knew I'd die. I sentenced myself. But now I know it's true. It's real. It will happen.
No, it isn't going to happen. It's a mistake.
And Lucile is at home. She's wearing a pink dress, or the silky gray. The gleam of it, over her soft full bosom, and her warm silken waist, and her hair dusted by sunlight-is there sunlight there? Yes-and she's holding the child. he's laughing and playing with a ribbon she's given him. His hands always amaze me, so small, but already able to do so much. This July he'll be two years old; I won't see that. But nothing will happen to her. She'll grieve. My darling, she'll cry for me-but it will ease. She'll live and she'll tell my son about me. All the best things, none of the flaws. Sweet deception, silly girl. Your father, she'll say. His second name is Camille-she's going to forget to call him Horatius. She's going to call him by my name; she'll make me out a hero. Handsome and good and a genius. He died for his country.
I don't want to ie, Lucile. I don't want to face that ride, that open place, that thin black thing on the sky. I don't want death. I want to come home and live with you.
(Screech of a lock, door slamming; you feel the vibration through every stone and bone. Earlier, you could hear the women washing their clothes at the trough in the yard, chattering. But they weren't real women, they didn't exist.)
The jury may find for us. The verdict hasn't been decided. But someone said they were already setting up the type for the printers: Guilty.
Fouquier lied.
He lied.
They can't touch her.
Christ, but they will-they have to-everything innocent has to be cut down. I've poisoned her with my death. And she won't even try to fight them. She'll say, No matter. It's day-clear. They've killed my Camille, and I don't want to stay here alone. She's so beautiful. So tender and sweet and lovely. Her skin, that holds the light inside it, and her eyes that make the light-all that can't be ended in a second. Live, Lucile. Live.
Don't touch her. Don't touch her! Christ, let me get out-let me escape and kill them all-help me, Oh, God, help me. Nothing exists but this prison. There's no escape, no help, no miracle.
Only this.
