georges bataille's story of the eye

I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the Milky Way, that strange breach of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniacal vapours shining in the immensity (in empty space, where they burst forth absurdly like a rooster’s crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity.
—  Story of the Eye, Georges Bataille
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I love you, you’re so well read
Blue stockings well spread
Your carnal knowledge knocks me dead

I love you, you’re so well read
Bluestocking give head
I love you, you’ve read:

Ovid, Anaïs Nin
The Song of Solomon
The Perfumed Garden and Georges Bataille’s
The Story of the Eye
The Petronius Satyricon
The Arabian Nights, the Decameron
The Marquis de Sade’s 120 Days
And Serge Gainsbourg singing songs to Sweet Jane B

I love you, you’re so well read
Blue stockings well spread
Your carnal knowledge knocks me dead

I love you, you’re so well read
Bluestocking give head
I love you, you’ve read:

Sacher Masoch and DHL
Portnoy’s Complaint and mine as well
Frank Harris, The Life and Loves
Lusts of a Moron, Wings of a Dove
The Latins of the Silver Age
The triolets of Paul Verlaine
Lautreamont and G. Cabrera Infante
Mishima Yukio and Sweet Jane B

I love you, you’re so well read
Bluestocking give head
Whisper what they said:

“Le silence de la chambre est profond
Aucun bruit n'arrive plus
Ni des routes, ni de la ville, ni de la mere
La nuit est a son terme, partout limpide et noir
La lune a disparu
Ils ont peur
Il ecoute, les yeux au sol
Son silence effrayante
Il parle de sa beaute
Les yeux fermees
Il peut revoir encore l'image dans sa perfection”

– momus, bluestocking (1991) 

[…] I did not care for what is know as ‘pleasures of the flesh’ because they really are insipid; I cared only for what is classified as 'dirty.’ On the other hand, I was not even satisfied with the usual debauchery, because the only thing it dirties is debauchery itself, while, in some way or other, anything sublime and perfectly pure is left intact by it. My kind of debauchery soils not only my body and my thoughts, but also anything I may conceive in its course, that is to say, the vast starry universe, which merely serves as a backdrop.
—  From Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille