Six months passed for better or worse, and then there was a vacancy on our staff, and we suddenly needed a nurse, skilled in massage. […] Quite a few fine-looking girls applied for the job. In fact, so many strapping young women of all nationalities nocked to Vigny as soon as our ad appeared that we were hard put to it to choose among them. In the end we picked a Slovak by the name of Sophie, whose complexion, energetic yet gentle bearing, and divine good health struck us, I have to admit, as irresistible.
This Sophie knew only a few words of French, but I undertook without delay, the least I could do, to give her lessons. And Jo and behold, in contact with her youth and freshness I felt my interest in teaching revive, though though Baryton had done everything in his power to disgust me with it. Impenitent! But what youth! What vigor! What muscles! What an excuse! Supple! Springy! Amazing! Her beauty was diminished by none of that false or true reticence that impedes all-too occidental converse. Frankly, I couldn’t admire her enough. From muscle to muscle, I proceeded by anatomical groups… By muscular slopes, by regions… I never wearied of pursuing that concentrated yet relaxed vigor, distributed in bundles which by turns evaded and consented to the touch… Beneath her satin, taut or relaxed, miraculous skin…
The era of these living joys, of great undeniable physiological and comparative harmonies is yet to come… the body, a godhead mauled by my shameful hands…
[…] We made strides in poetry, so to speak, just marveling at her being so beautiful and so much more obviously free than we were. The rhythm of her life sprang from other wellsprings than ours… our wellsprings were forever slow and slimy. […]
Wishing to take her by surprise, to ravish a little of her pride, of the prestige and power she had acquired over me, to diminish her, in short to humanize her a little and reduce her to our paltry proportions, I would go into her room when she was sleeping. At such times, Sophie offered a very different sight- more commonplace, yet surprising and reassuring as well. Without ostentation, almost uncovered, lying crosswise on the bed, legs every which way, skin moist and relaxed, she was battling with fatigue. In the depths of her body she dug into sleep, so hard that it made her snore. That was the only time when I found her within my reach. No more enchantment. No joking. This was serious. She toiled as though to pump more life out of existence … At such times she was greedy, drunk with wanting more and more.
[…] All that can be fucked. It’s extremely pleasant to grasp this moment when matter becomes life. You rise up to the endless plateau that spreads out before men. “Whew!” you go. And again “Whew!” You come the limit up there, and then it’s like an enormous desert…
[…] Under the pressure of age and circumstances, I note to my sorrow, my friendly feelings were taking an insidiously erotic turn. Betrayal. And Sophie, without meaning to, was abetting me in this betrayal. There was so much curiosity in Sophie she couldn’t help being attracted by danger. An excellent nature, nothing Protestant about her, she never tried to belittle the opportunities life offered and was never suspicious of them. Just my type. She went further. She understood the need for variety in the distractions of the rear end. An adventurous disposition of that sort, you’ll have to agree, is most unusual in women. We had definitely picked the right one.
Louis-Ferdinand Céline (Journey to the End of the Night, 1932)