Кристин Анго - Incest

Afterward I said to myself “no, I could never go meet her, getting out of the plane, exhausted from Christmas Eve, from the celebration, the real Christmas celebration, the night before. I get seconds.” We were meant to leave for Rome on December 28th. I’d reserved a hotel near the Piazza del Populo, the same week she’d promised to do everything she could to stay in Montpellier, and with Léonore and me. She hadn’t really wanted to, that’s what she says now, I’d pressured her, she had kept warning me, she wouldn’t do it if it would cause a scene. Scenes, conflicts. I tell her, Rome, I don’t want to go to anymore. It’s December 4th, our tickets are canceled. The hotel was called Hotel Quantin. We’re breaking up because she loves Nadine Casta and I love Dominique Quentin. It’s a real philosophical system, with a proper foundation, what causes me distress is the famous “insidious development” and the subjection to internal causes and that continual progression that doesn’t stop once the trigger sets it in motion, the engine starts, and it cannot be stopped. It’s in motion. Not a single phone call from Marie-Christine, it has now been more than ten days since the delusions set in, not a single phone call, not one visit, was able to stop me. The system is delirious, enduring, and impervious. I’m not the one who invented it. I won’t go to Rome because it will persist until the end of the year. The demand for love is made at the cost of a fight to the death. Last night Claude came by to see me, he said, “Oh Christine, your face is in tatters.”

Nazism, I persecute Marie-Christine for being homosexual even though it’s just a variation provoked by an arrested sexual development. Several highly respectable individuals of ancient and modern times have been homosexuals. But I have a sadomasochistic structure, which no one can deny, and, by the way, no one does. I am not the first, or the last, to persecute homosexuals, even if it’s cruel, I freely admit it. Why? Because my father was homosexual. He wasn’t, I’m raving, I’m exaggerating, I’m spouting nonsense, but the sodomy he practiced on me and on a certain Marianne, as he told me, brings him close to them. Bisexuality is human. It exists in a latent state in all heterosexuals, Freud said this as early as 1920. It’s one aspect. Not to mention his limp wrists, which he was always twisting and turning. Everything can always be twisted around.

Yesterday she said to me on the phone, “you destroy others because you yourself were destroyed,” that’s always nice to hear. Soon she’ll tell me she pities me. Paranoids can’t stand that, it’s intolerable, intolerable. In-tol-e-ra-ble.

I wept. She talked to me then:

—This may be our very last phone call. Do you have anything to add?

—Merry Christmas.

—I doubt it will be particularly merry.

—And Happy New Year.

Moral masochism. It the most destructive, for me it’s essentially expressed through language. I won’t go into the details. I’m a sadomasochist, that’s hard enough. I have conversations in my head, a lot, in that spirit of torturing, with Claude, Marie-Christine, my mother, and others. With others, there’s no harm, it’s not serious, the pleasure of sticking someone’s nose in his own shit, and the situation is not reversed. You’re a sadist, the other person, surprise, thinks they’re in the wrong (and they really are in the wrong), they argue, instead of – there’s only one thing to do, only one, it doesn’t occur to them – putting themselves in the role of victim, it has to be surreptitious, for me (me or another sadist) to switch, immediately, to apologizing, to reverse the process, to feeling pleasure in the pain in turn, to become at once the victim, which I am in my fantasy, right then, the moment I apologize and now, in turn, to feel pleasure in pain I’ve inflicted and in pain I receive. It’s not very original but that’s what I’m living and I don’t enjoy saying it. Taking pleasure in the pain you cause and the pain you’re given. ‘Everything can always be twisted around’ could have been my motto. I’m looking for a new one. People who know me, answer, suffer, or say, as Claude did yesterday “I don’t hold it against you, I know.” Suffering from what is said to me, and at the same time taking pleasure in what I say to others, I just can’t do it anymore. I’d like it to stop.

The other day

I stop by her practice. Her secretary, whose name is Nadine (Nadine Martin), doesn’t tell her right away that I’ve arrived. She finishes her mail, her phone call, typing on the computer, whatever. Then she picks up the phone and tells her “Christine is here,” she says to me “she’s examining someone’s breathing.” I wait a moment, several minutes. Then I leave, I don’t wait. This secretary whose name is Nadine and who is creating a barrier, after what’s happened, I won’t put up with her. Marie-Christine had told me “when I was interviewing her, she told me her first name, I said ‘that’s good.’” Finally a Nadine she can order around. I really am spouting nonsense. I said this secretary’s name several times, and I left:

—Nadine, will you tell her I couldn’t wait, that I was in a hurry, OK, Nadine?

—Certainly. In any case, I’ll tell her you stopped by.

—Thank you, Nadine, thank you. Good-bye Nadine.

Familiar hallucinatory process, one Nadine replaces another. One head of black hair replaces another, especially if it falls softly on the nape of the neck.

Yesterday, Thursday, December 3rd, I called the hospital in the morning:

—I wanted to let you know that Saturday I’m going Christmas shopping with Claude. He wants to give me my present, we’ll go to Avignon for the day…

—To Avignon?

—You know there’s nothing in Montpellier.

Then, I call her back five minutes later.

—I wanted to tell you something else, but it will hurt your feelings.

—Go ahead.

—I don’t want you to give me any Christmas presents, I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to tell you early enough, it’s December 3rd, it’s about the time when people start looking for presents. And that’s just it, I couldn’t stand it if you gave me a present. You can understand that. After everything that’s happened, I think.

—Anyway, we had said we’d exchange presents in Rome.

—You know perfectly well I don’t want to go anymore.

—We hadn’t really decided yet.

—Well, me, I’ve decided. I don’t want to go anymore. I’ve known since noon on Wednesday (November 25th) when you didn’t call. You know that. And since then I haven’t changed my mind (impervious).

Ten minutes ago, I called her at her practice, the tickets to Rome have been canceled at my request. I asked her never to call me again. Ten minutes ago, I called her:

—Maybe it was a mistake to cancel the tickets.

—You want to go?

—No. I told you I wouldn’t change my mind. I don’t want to go. But we could have waited a bit longer just in case.

—I could call them back if you want.

—But I don’t want to go to Rome, not at all. Rome is finished. After all that’s happened. The only place that would be possible for me now is Seville.

—I could call if you want.

—But I didn’t say I wanted to go. I can’t at the moment. You know very well I’m blocked, and that I haven’t wavered, not for one second, since Wednesday noon.

At the cost of a fight to the death, which Lacan identifies with the dialectic of master and slave. I can’t take it any more, I can’t go on, I want someone to help me. Writing made me feel better, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, but since the definitions, it’s over. The relief ended with the first difficulty I ran into.

A while ago I was thinking of another example of sadomasochistic inversion: Sujet Angot , the structure.