Mon cher ami,
my encounter in the Kronenhalle was not without consequence. A few days after my epiphany, I received a message in my hotel room. Une panthère très élégante kindly asked me if the candied fruit had met my expectations and handed me an invitation from her master, the man of many names. She swiftly made her exit on tip-toes.
The party was to take place on the Gold Coast, near Küsnacht. The portico was decorated with grapevines and ivy. Before I could even ring the bell, the lovely messenger opened the gate and I was led in. There were about 50 of us. I didn’t see a single familiar face. I looked for my seat on the table plan. I arrived at my seat to find two ladies. One of them would best be described as overripe. She spoke a terrible dialect and, as if to make conversation even harder, she was missing more than one tooth. Mercifully, my other neighbour was a nymph. Her face was marked by innocence and her eyes were as blue as gentian and as cold as ice. Little by little, the bird builds its nest.
I will try to describe the events of the evening to you. However, please do forgive me if there are some elements that are missing or seem to contradict each other. So much happened and I’m not sure that I fully understand it all.
As I mentioned, the hall was opulently decorated: ivy, grapevines, here and there a golden pan flute, as well as huge bows of azure silk. These decorations contrasted beautifully with the bright yellow of the walls. The ceiling was supported by Ionic columns while several chandeliers bathed the party in a warm light. I did not, however, see our guest among the revellers.
Suddenly, dwarves entered the room through doors hidden in the wallpaper. They walked about the room on bent legs like weasels, waving pistols. At first, I believed them to be dummy pistols. As such, I was aghast when one of those fiends shot a bullet into the ceiling. You can imagine the chaos that ensued. The old lady jumped up and ran out of the hall like a gazelle. The nymph scurried under the table. Other guests shouted nonsensical things like: ‘Call the police!’, or ‘Paul, where are you?’, ‘What exactly is a funicular?’ or ‘Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?’ To my shame, I was no better. When they started to light smoke bombs, I closed my eyes and began reciting the following mantra: ‘They won’t see you. You’re not even here’. Unfortunately, object permanence prevailed.
Then, silence. I opened my eyes. HE was making his entrance, accompanied by the crashing of cymbals and the sound of pan pipes. He was sitting on a bull, surrounded by beautiful women. Satyrs guided the bull by its horns.
HE made a slight hand movement – le silence s’est installé. He greeted us with a speech that bears some resemblance to the following:
‘Friends! Not these sounds, but more joyful ones. Zeus has given us twelve passions, let us make the most of them. Only a life in luxury is worthy of a human being. The poverty, the misery of our society is the result of moral… mismanagement.
Enough with prejudice!
No more thinking in terms of self-censorship!
No more suppression of our needs!
No more thinking of our passions as vices!
No more pseudo-morality that enslaves us, no more pseudo-science that makes fools of us! With this in mind, my friends, feast on food and drink and don’t forget to copulate!’
Dear Lush, I will leave the rest of this to your rich imagination.
Before I forget, here are my reading suggestions:
Liebe, Luxus und Kapitalismus: Über die Entstehung der modernen Welt aus dem Geist der Verschwendung by Werner Sombart. Seize the means of production. Long live the luxury we owe to women.
Moravagine by Blaise Cendrars. Moravagine: a man whose name unites death (la mort) with childbirth (le vagin). Ah, the glory of the human imagination.
Farewell my friend. Do write soon, Ocelot.