Page 117 - The Thief's Journal

The Thief's Journal
In order to discover within himself—by means of gestures which reject them or aim to destroy them— the charming burglars whose occupations, whose craft, delight me, Maurice B. invents, and applies, gadgets to foil them. His ingenuity proves his idiosyncrasy, and that secretly (perhaps unconsciously) he is pursuing within himself the quest for evil. His house now bristles with cunning devices: a high−tension current runs through a sheet of metal on his window−rail; he has installed an alarm system; there are complicated locks on his doors, and so on. He does not have much to protect, but in this way he remains in contact with the agile and crafty spirit of evil−doers.
God: my inner tribunal.
Saintliness: union with God.
Saintliness will be when the tribunal ceases, that is, when the judge and judged merge.
A tribunal decides between good and evil. It pronounces sentence, it imposes punishment. I shall cease to be the judge and the accused.
Young people in love exhaust themselves in the quest for erotic situations. It seems that the poorer the imagination that discovers them and the deeper the love that produces them, the more curious they are. Roger used to crush grapes in his girl's cunt, and then they would divide them and eat them. Occasionally he would offer some to his friends who were astonished at being offered such a strange preserve. He also smeared his prick with chocolate cream.
“My girl's got a sweet tooth,” he used to say.
One of my other lovers adorns his bush with ribbons. Another once wove a tiny wreath of daisies for the tip of his friend's prick. A phallic cult is zealously celebrated in private, behind the curtain of buttoned flies. If a rich imagination, availing itself of the disorder, should turn it to account, just imagine the revels—to which plants and animals will be invited—that will ensue and the spirituality that will emanate from them and above them! I arrange in Java's bush the feathers that escape at night from the crushed pillow. The word balls is a roundness in my mouth. I am aware that my gravity, when I invent this part of the body, becomes my most essential virtue. Just as the magician draws countless wonders from his hat, I can draw from them all the other virtues.
Rene asked me whether I knew any queers he could rob.
“Not your pals, naturally. Your pals are out.”
I thought for a few minutes and finally hit upon Pierre W. at whose home Java had stayed for a few days.
Pierre W., an old queer (of 50), bald and affected, who wore steel−rimmed glasses. Java, who had met him on the Riviera, said to me, “He puts them on the dresser when he makes love.” One day, just for the fun of it, I asked him whether he liked Pierre W.
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