By Georges Bataille
Set opposed to the backdrop of Europe's slide into Fascism, "Blue of Noon" is a blackly compelling account of depravity and violence. As its narrator lurches despairingly from urban to urban in a surreal sexual and psychological nightmare of squalor, sadism and drunken encounters, his inner cave in mirrors the combating and marching at the streets outdoor. Exploring the darkish forces underneath the skin of civilization, this can be a novel torn among opting for with history's sufferers and being seduced by way of the enormous glamour of its negative victors, and is likely one of the 20th century's nice nihilist works.
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Extra info for Blue of Noon
She had been unable to phone herself because the moment she came in, she had immediately decided to leave. She had barely had time to catch the last train to Marseilles. She would go by plane from Marseilles to Barcelona and arrive there at two in the afternoon. She had not had the time . . it had been physkally impossible for her to tell me herself. It had never occurred to me for one second that I might be seeing Dirty the next day - that she might take the plane from Marseilles. As I sat there on the bed, I did not feel happy but almost dazed.
For one brief moment I trembled: in my daze I thought that the man I call the Co mmendatore had come in. He would appear whenever I invited him. Even Xenie had been frightened. Like me, she felt apprehensive about a win dow where she had just been sitting for the purpose of jumping out of it. At the moment of the rug's intrusion, MOTHERL Y FEET 8S she hadn't screamed - she had curled up against me, pale, with eyes like a madwoman's. I was getting out of my depth. "It's too dark . . " . . Xenie stretched out alongside me - it was then she assumed the appearance of a dead woman .
Whom were you talking about? You've got to tell me, I'm going crazy - you know I've had too much to drink . . " After a painful silence, I announced, "No one's coming! " A tormented shadow abruptly fell out o f the sunny sky, shaking and snapping in the window frame. Shrink ing and trembling I withdrew inside myself. It was a long rug tossed down from the floor above. For one brief moment I trembled: in my daze I thought that the man I call the Co mmendatore had come in. He would appear whenever I invited him.