[nathalie_dinu]

''Sometimes, vainly trying to overcome the imperfections of the organism in the
midst of the deepest sleep, the hypnotized senses perceive with astonishment that it is now only
a block of sepulchre-stone, and reason admirably, with incomparable subtlety: 'To get up from
this bed is a more difficult problem than one might think. Sitting in a cart, I am being taken off
towards the binarity of the guillotine posts. Strange to say, my inert arm has knowingly taken on
the stiffness of a chimney stack. It is not at all good to dream that one is going towards the
scaffold.' Blood flows in wide waves over the face. The breast repeatedly gives violent starts,
heaves, and wheezes. The weight of an obelisk suppresses the free expression of rage. The
real has destroyed the dreams of drowsiness! Who does not know that when the struggle
continues between the ego, full of pride, and the terrible encroachment of catalepsy, the deluded
mind loses its judgment? Gnawed by despair, it revels in its sickness, till it has conquered nature,
and sleep, seeing its prey escape it, retreats, angry and ashamed, far away, never to return.
Throw a few ashes on my flaming eyeballs. Do not stare at my never-ending eyes. Do you
understand the sufferings I endure? (However, pride is gratified.) As soon as night exhorts
humans to rest, a man, whom I know, strides over the countryside. I fear my resolved will
succumb to the onset of old age. Let it come, that fatal day when I fall asleep! When I awake,
my razor, making its way across my neck, will prove that, in fact, nothing was more real.'' Comte de Lautréamont, Maldoror and Poems