Читаем Incest полностью

First, the signs, the symptoms. The alienation that comes over you, it’s no longer me. The causes, which are blinding, immediately discernable. It’s November 28, 1998. I can’t mix things up this time. The kind of connections I’ve drawn until now between everything, everything and anything, I want to stop making them. Cloning, Viagra, Baya, Yassou, Muzil, poor dead Guibert, I’m going to let it all drop. I’ll make do with my own little things, my stuff, Christmas, Nadine Casta, Marie-Christine Adrey. Without bringing in anything larger or universal. Time to calm down, to try to be what I am, that is to say, not much. Putting all this more or less in order would already be something, not bad. Everything will be in the proper order from here and maybe even make me happy some day. And I’m going to try to be polite.

Precise, logical, and clear for once. Maybe things will go better afterward. I’m suffering from paranoia, I think, delusions too, I think. I ordered some books for the definitions and borrowed others. I’m not going insane, I already am insane, I definitely am insane.

Signs, symptoms, immediately discernable causes, trigger, deep causes, concrete manifestations, and word games, folle, a crazy woman but also a gay man, a folle with a limp wrist, (mine are often limp, too, I’ll get back to that). I’d like some classification, maybe even footnotes at the bottom of the page, a critical apparatus including all the books I already have at my disposal.

There are testimonies, many people have told me, it’s not just something I’m inventing. There are witnesses, people who saw me. Waking up this morning, I myself was a witness, it’s Saturday, tomorrow’s Sunday, the day after is Monday. I ask Moufid Zériahen, doctor, psychoanalyst, if he could find a place for me in his clinic for a while. I woke up this morning (very early, in any case I’d barely slept, one of the signs is insomnia of course), I said this to myself very clearly. I don’t know for how long, I know it’s necessary. My reactions are off. The clinic is called L’Alironde, it’s bit outside of Montpellier. (A friend’s son is there, manic-depressive. He just applied for disability assistance, you certainly can’t work with that condition.) You can have yourself committed, Walser did, as a matter of fact. That’s not why I want to do it, but because I have the feeling that I can’t take it anymore. I’m at my limit, what with my mental structure, incestuous, I mix everything up, it has advantages, connections others don’t make, but too much is too much as they say, it’s the limit. I mix everything up, I go too far, I wreck everything. I called Claude this morning to tell him I wanted to spend some time in a clinic and why, he said to me “the good thing is you’re lucid.” Yes, I’m lucid, yes, I’m going to explain everything to you, everything, everything, everything.

Claude said something else when I telephoned again later to read him these two pages: “what’s more it’s mischievous and impertinent.” No, not at all. It’s not at all mischievous and impertinent. It’s not at all a game. I’m not mocking you. I really did wake up this morning thinking of L’Alironde, I’m paranoid and delusional. I’m at risk. It’s not mischievous and impertinent. I can be serious. I can explain. I can try, I don’t know if I’ll be able to, it’s complicated, especially for me, because I’m insane, it will be difficult. I have a tendency to mix things up, you saw it in the first section. No order at all, everything’s mixed together, my mental structure is incestuous, OK, I’m at my limit, I’m not joking, I can feel it. Screaming into the telephone at two in the morning, insulting someone you don’t know, or barely know, who didn’t do anything to you, nothing special but who talks like others did a long time ago, I dragged her through the mud, I said it was worse than a pile of shit even though I didn’t even know her and I don’t care. I’m putting on an act. Stop. Until then I let my insanity show, I exposed my defective mental world. Laclave said it three years ago “her mental world is one of morbid imprisonment.” Since Wednesday, it culminated last night, I’ve been at my limit. It has been nothing but a permanent howl since, I slapped my face, I beat my own body, I was red, I was home alone, if Marie-Christine had been here I might have killed her, if it were Nadine Casta, I would have. I lay on the ground all night. The series of telephone calls described in the first section started up again and I didn’t even realize at the time that it was the work of a deranged mind. Oh, I know perfectly well why.