The Octopus

by Comte de Lautréamont

translated by Samuel Lees 

There are moments in life when man, with a lousy head, casts a crazed look upon the green membranes of space, for he seems to hear the ironic jeers of a ghost. He staggers and bends his head: the thing he heard was the voice of conscience. With the speed of a madman he rushes from his house, takes the first path that offers itself to his stupor, and devours the rugged plains of the country. But the yellow phantom pursues him with equal speed and does not lose him from sight.

Sometimes on a stormy night while legions of winged octopuses, that resemble crows from afar, soar above the clouds, making their way with a massive oar towards the cities of men, their mission to warn them to change their ways, the dark-eyed pebble sees two figures passing in the flickering light of the heavens, one after another, and, wiping away a furtive tear of compassion that flows from its icy lid, yells: ‘He deserves it, of course; it is only fair.’ That said, he resumes his timorous attitude, and continues, with a nervous quiver, to observe the manhunt and the large lips of the vagina of shadows from whence  an endless procession of huge spermatozoids emerge, like a river of darkness, soaring up into the gloomy ether and enveloping all of nature in their vast membranous wings, and the solitary legions of octopuses, grown dismal at the sight of these mute and ineffable fulgurations.

Meanwhile, the steeplechase continues between the two indefatigable runners. The ghost hurls torrents of fire from its mouth onto the charred back of the human antelope. If along the way, in the discharge of his duty, he finds Pity trying to block his path, he yields to her pleas with reluctance and lets the man escape. The ghost clicks his tongue, as if to tell himself that he is giving up the chase, and returns to his kennel until further notice. His voice is that of the damned and can be heard in the furthest regions of space, and when his horrible screams penetrate the human heart, they say that the latter would rather have death for a mother than remorse for a son.

The man buries his head up to the neck in the muddy complexities of a hole, but conscience vaporises this ostrich ruse. Like a drop of ether, the hole evaporates. Light appears, with its retinue of rays, like a flight of curlews descending upon a sea of lavender, and he is confronted once more with his own ghastly reflection.

I have seen him wander down to the coast, climb to the top of a steep cliff blasted by the sea and spray of mist and, like an arrow, hurl himself headlong into the watery depths. Now here’s the miracle: the body reappeared, the next day, on the surface of the ocean, which bore it back to the shore. The man freed himself from the crater his body had formed in the sand, wrang the water from his hair and, with a silent and downcast brow, regained the path of life.

Conscience judges our most secret acts and thoughts severely and is never misguided. As it is often powerless to prevent evil, it hunts man down like a fox without end, especially after dark. Vengeful eyes, which ignorant science calls meteors, spread a livid flame across the sky as they hurtle through the heavens, intoning words of mystery… which he understands! His bed is battered by the convulsions of his body, crushed under the weight of insomnia, and he hears the sinister breath of the vague rumours of the night. The angel of sleep himself, having suffered a deadly blow to the head from an unknown stone, abandons his task and hies towards heaven.

Well, I come forward to defend man on this occasion; I who hold all virtue in contempt; whom the Creator has been unable to forget, since the glorious day when, knocking the annals of heaven from their pedestal, where, by some base conspiracy, his power and eternity had been consigned, I applied my four hundred suckers to his armpit while he let out dreadful screams… They turned into vipers as they left his mouth and fled into the undergrowth and among the ruins, on the lookout day and night. These long and tortuous cries, imbued with countless rings, a small flat head and perfidious eyes, had vowed to halt before human innocence. But when men wander through the long grasses, or on the side of an embankment, or across desert sands, they soon change their minds. That is, if there is still time, as occasionally he becomes aware of the poison creeping into his veins from an almost imperceptible bite, before he has time to turn back and make his escape. Thus the Creator, keeping an admirable calm even in the presence of the most appalling suffering, is able to pry, from their bosoms, germs that are harmful to the inhabitants of the earth.

Imagine his surprise when he saw Maldoror, transformed into an octopus, coiling eight monstrous tentacles around his body: each of these strong whips could easily encircle the globe. Caught off guard, he struggled awhile against the slimy embrace which tightened more and more… I feared some dirty trick on his part. Having liberally gorged on the globules of sacred blood, I suddenly detached myself from his majestical body, and hid myself inside a cave, which has been my home ever since. Despite many fruitless investigations, he was unable to find me. I think now he knows where I live, but refrains from coming in. The two of us live like neighbouring monarchs, who know their respective strengths, cannot vanquish the other, and are weary of the useless battles of the past. He fears me, and I fear him. Each of us, without being defeated, has suffered the rough blows of his enemy, and we leave it at that. But I am ready to take the fight up again, when he feels like it. But he must not wait for an opportune moment to carry out his secret schemes, for I shall always be on my guard and have my eye on him.

May he no longer inflict conscience and its tortures upon the earth. I have taught men the weapons they can use to keep it at bay. They have not yet become accustomed to it, but, you know, to me, conscience is like the straw that is carried by the wind. And I treat it as such. If I wanted to make the most of the opportunity that presents itself, to rarify these poetic discussions, I would say that conscience matters even less to me than straw, for straw is at least useful to the kine that ruminates it, while conscience only knows how to bare her steel claws. They suffered a painful setback, the day they placed themselves before me. Since conscience had been sent by the Creator, I thought it fit not to let her stand in my way. Had she presented herself with the modesty and humility befitting her station, and from which she should never have strayed, I would have listened to her. I did not like her pride. I stretched out my hand and crushed her claws between my fingers. They fell to dust, beneath the growing pressure of this new kind of mortar. I stretched out my other hand and ripped off her head. I chased the woman from my house while lashing my whip at her, and I never saw her again. But I kept her head as a token of my victory…

Gnawing the skull of the head I held in my hand, I stood on one leg, like the heron, on the edge of a precipice carved into the side of a mountain. I was seen making my way down into the valley, while the skin of my chest remained as still and calm as the lid of a tomb!

Gnawing the skull of the head I held in my hand, I swam to the most dangerous depths of the sea, skirted along the deadly reefs, and plunged deeper than any current, to witness the marine monsters fight each other. I swam so far from the shore that I lost it from sight. Hideous cramps, with their paralysing magnetism, swarmed around my limbs as they cleaved the waves with vigorous movements, but did not dare get any closer. I was seen returning to the beach, safe and sound, while the skin of my chest remained as still and calm as the lid of a tomb!

Gnawing the skull of the head I held in my hand, I mounted the steps of a high tower. I reached the dizzying summit, my legs exhausted by my efforts. I surveyed the surrounding country, the sea. I looked at the sun and the firmament. Pushing back against the granite which did not give way, I defied death and divine justice with a supreme cry of contempt, and hurled myself, like a paving stone, into the gaping mouth of space. The men heard the painful and echoing sound as the head of conscience, which I had abandoned during my fall, crashed against the ground. I was seen gliding down slowly like a bird, carried on the back of an invisible cloud. I retrieved the head, so I could force it to bear witness to a triple crime, which I was to commit later that day, while the skin of my chest remained as still and calm as the lid of a tomb!

Gnawing the skull of the head I held in my hand, I made my way to the place where the guillotine stood. Beneath the blade I placed the smooth and delicate necks of three young girls. Executor of great works, I released the rope with what seemed an entire lifetime’s experience. The triangular blade, falling obliquely, lopped off the three heads that gazed at me sweetly. I then placed my own head beneath the massive razor, while the executioner prepared to discharge his duty. Thrice the blade slid down the grooves with renewed vigour. Thrice my mortal frame was shaken to its depths, particularly at the base of the neck, as when one sees oneself in a dream being crushed to death in a collapsing house. The crowd of stunned spectators sundered as I made my way from the dismal square. They saw me part its surging waves with my elbows and advance, full of life, with my head held high, while the skin of my chest remained as still and calm as the lid of a tomb!

I said that I wished to defend man on this occasion, but I fear my apologia may not be the expression of truth, and would therefore prefer to hold my tongue. Mankind will applaud this measure with gratitude!