Story of O Read online

  Yes, Story of O, as I have said, is indeed a mystic book!

  Proud Réage … In the midst of her glowing tale, she has a way of involving herself, of slipping, at the worst possible moments, into the skin of her heroine, which is enough to make one shudder and at the same time make one feel a certain tenderness for her. The way one would feel toward a brave bull who has fought well. The château at Roissy, like the bull ring, is the sacrificial site. When women become exasperated, they sometimes assume postures wherein they seem to be offering themselves to the arrows of misfortune, and it would not be difficult to draw from them, for the sake of youth, some sublime examples. For it is difficult to go as far down as Réage does, under cover of the mask and of night but beneath the cruelest light, and she reaches depths of humiliation which have scarcely been plumbed by Genet, or by Adamov in the terrible pages of his L’Epreuve. With her, not the faintest trace of dilettantism. Still proudly, the black pact is candidly accepted, and carried through to its ultimate consequences. It is in this, perhaps, that she differs especially from the authors of erotic books, almost all of whom have known how to keep themselves aloof by keeping to the privileged terrain of dandyism, by torturing victims with whom they are unfamiliar, by using humor and imagination, by discreetly keeping exits open by which, at dawn, they can leave, without having overly sullied or compromised themselves.

  Such a descent into hell, of which the rightful issue is the destruction of the body (and it is O’s fanatic wish that her body be insulted, then destroyed), has raised the question of “masochism.” The word, first of all, is detestable, deriving from one of the worst, most stupid, and ridiculous writers of the second half of the nineteenth century. Venus in Furs was all the rage. Who, unless he were a trifle addle-brained, would still have any interest in this empty prattle? Who would dare to compare it with the great, heavy silence cast like a cape over O’s tortures? As for the passion, or vice, which the term designates, we can at most allot it a minor role in Pauline Réage’s book, for it is so completely overwhelmed by the heroine’s ardor, transfigured by a current which comes from the soul and not from the body, and which in fact is directed against the body.

  Jean Paulhan, in his ingeniously arranged Preface, tells us that erotic books—Réage’s book—are dangerous. This is an understatement, and it is my opinion that there is much more seductive virtue in Story of O than in the others. Because innocent souls (if there are any) have an unreasoned but keen taste for suffering, and nothing seduces them so easily as does the view of a martyr. And also because the innocent souls (assuming, also, that they know how to read) will at first glance be put off by the coarse vocabulary of classical erotology, whereas they will find all sorts of allurements in Pauline Réage’s writing, which is incredibly decent in relation to the subjects dealt with. If the writing is not the foremost quality of the book, it is certainly not the least: pure as the writing of the Princesse de Clèves, warm as … I shall refrain from saying what, and of a simple density which emphasizes, or provokes, the movements of the heart. Her writing offers an example, which will not be heeded in an age when writers, following the perfidious example of Céline, have a tendency to use indiscriminately erotic or scatological language, which when used legitimately, can be extremely beautiful and effective.

  Shall we one day see on the finger of some woman the formidable iron ring which strips the person wearing it of her freedom, since she places her body at the disposal of all those who are able to read the insignia engraved in the setting? And, what is especially important, shall we be able to tell which one is Pauline Réage? Probably not. But already Baudelaire is offering his hand to her, the Portuguese Nun is approaching her a trifle timidly, the Nun of Dülmen is ready to open her arms to her, and she is about to enter that small circle of blessed and accursed creatures which constitutes the only aristocracy which one can consider today with any degree of respect.

  Happiness in Slavery

  by Jean Paulhan of l’Académie Française

  A Revolt in Barbados

  In the course of the year 1838, the peaceful island of Barbados was rocked by a strange and bloody revolt. About two hundred Negroes of both sexes, all of whom had recently been emancipated by the Proclamations of March, came one morning to beg their former master, a certain Glenelg, to take them back into bondage. An Anabaptist minister, acting as spokesman for the group, read out a list of grievances which he had compiled and recorded in a notebook. Then the discussion began. But Glenelg, either from timidity or because he was scrupulous, or simply afraid of the law, refused to be swayed. At which point he was at first mildly jostled, then set upon and massacred, together with his family, by the Negroes, who that same evening repaired to their cabins, their palavers, their labors, and customary rituals. Swift action on the part of Governor MacGregor succeeded in suppressing the matter, and the emancipation pursued its course. As for the notebook of grievances it has never been recovered.

  There are times when I think of that notebook. It is quite likely that it contained, aside from the justified complaints concerning the organization of the work-houses, the substitution of cell for lash, and the rule making it illegal for the “apprentices”—for such were the newly-freed workers called—to fall ill, it is likely that it contained at least the rough draft of an apologia for slavery. The remark, for instance, that the only freedoms we really appreciate are those which cast others into an equivalent state of servitude. There is not a man alive who thanks his lucky stars for the privilege of being able to breathe freely. But if, for example, I obtain permission to play the banjo merrily till two in the morning, my neighbor loses the right not to hear me play till two in the morning. If I manage to get along without working, my neighbor has to work for two. And, what is more, we know how an all-consuming passion for freedom in the world never fails to lead to conflicts and wars which are no less consuming. Add to this the fact that, since the slave, according to at least one dialectic, is in turn destined to become the master, then we would doubtless be wrong to precipitate the natural order of events. Finally, let it be said that to surrender oneself to the will of others (as often happens with lovers and mystics) and so find oneself at last rid of selfish pleasures, interests, and personal complexes, is in no wise a joyless act, nor one lacking in grandeur. In short, this notebook would seem even more heretical today than it did some hundred and thirty years ago: today it would be considered a dangerous book.

  What we are concerned with here is another kind of dangerous book. To be more specific: with an erotic book.

  I.—Decisive as a letter

  Why, in fact, are they called dangerous? A somewhat risky business, to say the least. For since there is courage in numbers, the very act of referring to them as such would seem bound to make us want to read them and expose ourselves to the danger. And it is with good reason that geographical societies warn their members that, whenever they are relating their adventures, they should avoid dwelling overly on the dangers they have encountered. It is not a question of modesty, but rather of not leading anyone else into temptation (witness the ease with which wars are begun). But what dangers?

  From where I stand, there is at least one danger I can easily perceive. It is a modest danger. From every indication, Story of O is one of those books which marks the reader, which leaves him not quite, or not at all, the same as he was before he read it. Such books are strangely involved with the influence they exert, changing in accordance with that influence. After a few years, they are no longer the same books, and consequently the initial reviewers soon seem to have been a bit simple-minded. But that cannot be helped, a reviewer should never be afraid to make a fool of himself. With this thought in mind, the simplest thing for me to do is admit that I hardly know what to make of it, or what it all means. I advance through O with a strange feeling, as though I am moving through a fairy tale—we know that fairy tales are erotic novels for children—through one of those fairy castles which appears abandoned, and yet the armchairs in their
slip covers and the ottomans and the four-poster beds are all neatly dusted, and the whips and riding crops are too: they are, if I may say so, dusted by definition. Not a speck of rust on the chains or a trace of steam on the multicolored windowpanes. If there is one word which comes to mind when I think of O, that word is decency. It is a word which would be far too difficult for me to try and justify, so I shall not even try. And then this wind which blows endlessly through all the rooms. In O, there also blows some indefinable, always pure and violent spirit, endless and unadulterated. It is a decisive spirit which nothing disturbs, whether it be moans or horrors, ecstasy or nausea. And, if I must make another confession, this type of thing is not, generally speaking, my cup of tea. I incline to works in which the author is hesitant, indicating by some show of embarrassment that he was at first intimidated by his subject, that there were moments when he doubted he would ever be able to bring it off. But from beginning to end, the story of O is managed rather like some brilliant feat. It reminds you more of a speech than a mere effusion; of a letter rather than a secret diary. But to whom is the letter addressed? Whom is the speech trying to convince? Whom can we ask? I don’t even know who you are.

  That you are a woman I have little doubt. Not so much because of the kind of detail you delight in describing—the green satin dresses, wasp-waist corsets, and skirts rolled up a number of turns (like hair rolled up in a curler)—but rather because of something like this: the day when René abandons O to still further torments, she still manages to have enough presence of mind to notice that her lover’s slippers are frayed, and notes that she will have to buy him another pair. To me, such a thought seems almost unimaginable. It is something a man would never have thought of, or at least would never have dared express.

  And yet, in her own way O expressed a virile ideal. Virile, or at least masculine. At last a woman who admits it! Who admits what? Something that women have always refused till now to admit (and today more than ever before). Something that men have always reproached them with: that they never cease obeying their nature, the call of their blood, that everything in them, even their minds, is sex. That they have constantly to be nourished, constantly washed and made up, constantly beaten. That all they need is a good master, one who is not too lax or kind: for the moment we make any show of tenderness they draw upon it, turning all the zest, joy, and character at their command to make others love them. In short, that we must, when we go to see them, take a whip along. Rare is the man who has not dreamed of possessing Justine. But, so far as I know, no woman has ever dreamed of being Justine. I mean, dreamed aloud, with this same pride at being grieved and in tears, this consuming violence, with this voracious capacity for suffering, and this amazing will, stretched to the breaking point, and even beyond. Woman you may be, but descended from a knight, or a crusader. As though yours was a dual personality, or the person for whom your letter was intended was so constantly present that you borrowed his taste, and his voice. But what kind of woman, and who are you?

  In any event, the story of O has deep roots. It has, in my opinion, that feeling of repose, of spaciousness as it were, which one finds only in a tale which the author has nurtured within her for a long time: a tale with which she is wholly familiar. Who is Pauline Réage? Is she—for there are such people—a mere dreamer? (It is enough, they say, to listen to the dictates of your heart. It is a heart that nothing can dissuade.) Is she a woman of the world, who knows whereof she speaks? Who knows whereof she speaks and is astonished that an adventure that began with such promise—or at least with such sobriety, in a climate of asceticism and chastisement—should turn out so badly and end on a note of dubious smugness, for, it seems generally to be agreed, O remains in that kind of brothel to which she was led by love; and not only does she remain there, she rather likes it. And yet, in this connection:

  II.—A ruthless decency

  I too was surprised by the end. And nothing you can say will convince me it is the real end. That in reality (so to speak) your heroine convinces Sir Stephen to consent to her death. He will remove her irons only after she is dead. But, obviously, there are things that have been left unsaid, and that busy little bee—I am referring to Pauline Réage—has kept part of the honey for herself. Who knows, perhaps this once she let herself be seduced by a writer’s concern: that she might one day want to write a sequel to O’s adventures. Besides, that ending is so obvious it was hardly worth stating. We discover it without any trouble. We discover it, and somehow it obsesses us. But you, the author, how did you think it up—and what is the open sesame which explains it? I keep harping on this because I feel certain that once it has been found, then the ottomans and the four-posters, and even the chains will be explained and will allow this tall, dim figure, this scheming phantom, these curious breaths of air, to move freely to and fro among them.

  At this point I must pause and consider what there is about masculine desire which is in fact strange and indefensible. We hear of those formations of rocks which suddenly shift when the winds blow upon them, or else emit a soughing sound or give forth a mandolin-like music. People come from near and far to see them. And yet one’s initial impulse is to turn and run from such phenomena, no matter how much one may love music. Actually, what if the role of the erotic (or of dangerous books, if you prefer) was to inform and instruct us? To reassure us on the subject, the way a father confessor does? I realize that, in general, people grow accustomed to it. Nor do men remain embarrassed for very long. They make up their minds, they claim that they were the ones who started it all. They are lying and, if I may say so, the facts are clear: obvious, too obvious.

  Women do too, I shall be told. No doubt they do, but with them the act is not visible. They can always say that they’re not. How decent! Whence no doubt derives the notion that women are the more beautiful of the two, that beauty is feminine. More beautiful, I’m not so sure. But more discreet in any case, less obvious, and this is a kind of beauty. I have twice now alluded to the idea of decency with respect to a book in which decency is hardly the question.…

  But is it true that decency is hardly germane here? I am not thinking of that kind of colorless, hypocritical decency which limits itself to dissimulation, which flees from the presence of the stone and denies having seen it move. There is another kind of decency, indomitable and quick to punish, a decency which humbles the flesh sufficiently to render it its original integrity, which by force returns it to the days when desire had not been made manifest and the rocks had not yet sung. A decency into whose hands it is dangerous to fall. For, to satisfy it, nothing less than the hands tied behind the back will do, than the knees spread apart and bodies spread-eagled, than sweat and tears.

  I seem to be saying frightful things. Perhaps I am, but in that case terror is our daily bread—and perhaps dangerous books are those which restore us to our natural state of danger. What lover would not be terrified if he were to weigh for one moment the full implication of his declaration, which is not made lightly, to commit himself for life? And what mistress, if she were to measure for a moment the meaning of her words: “Before I met you I have never loved anyone else.… I have never experienced real emotion before I knew you?” would not be equally terror-stricken at the words slipping past her lips? Or these, more sagacious—sagacious?—: “I should like to punish myself for having been happy before I met you!” There she is, trapped by her own words. There she is, so to speak, getting what she asked for.

  Thus, in the story of O, there is no lack of torture. There is no lack of flogging, with a riding crop, or even of branding with a red-hot iron, not to mention the leather collar and the spectacle on the terrace. Almost as many tortures as there are prayers in the life of ascetics in the desert. No less carefully distinguished, and as though numbered—separated one from the other by little stones. They are not always joyous tortures—I mean inflicted joyfully. René refuses to inflict any, and although Sir Stephen consents to them, it is as though he is performing a duty. So far as we can
tell, they do not enjoy themselves. There is nothing sadistic about them. It all happens as though it were O alone who, from the outset, demanded to be chastised, to be forced in her retreats.

  At this point some fool is going to mention masochism. I don’t mind, but all it will do is to add a false mystery to the real one, a mystery of semantics pure and simple. What does masochism mean? That pain is at the same time pleasure, that suffering is also joy? That may well be. These are the kind of affirmations widely used by metaphysicians—who are also prone to proclaim that all absence is presence, all speech silence—and let me be the last one to deny that these declarations may indeed have their meaning (though one I do not understand), or at least their usefulness. But it is a usefulness that does not, in any event, derive from simple observation—and is therefore not the concern of doctors or mere psychologists and, all the more so, of simpletons or fools. “No,” I can hear someone saying to me, “while we are dealing here with pain, it is a pain the masochist is capable of transforming into pleasure; a suffering which he, by some secret alchemy he alone possesses, can turn into pure joy.”

  What a wonderful piece of news! At last man has discovered what he has been searching for so doggedly through the ages, in medicine, ethics, philosophy, and religion: the means to avoid pain—or at least to transcend it, to understand it (were it only by seeing therein the effect of our stupidity or mistakes). What is more, man might easily have made this discovery in ages past, for in truth masochists are not a recent invention. And so I am amazed that this discovery was not greeted by a great fanfare and bestowal of signal honors; that no attempt was made to steal the secret. And I’m also surprised that these masochists were not rounded up and herded into the laboratories and museums, in cages, the better to be observed and studied.