The monster in the cabinet [1] by Quentin Dubois.
Translation: Matheus Melo

The idea that one can be convincing without reasoning is as ancient as time, although still camouflaged under the thick oposcules of Philosophers. It is ancient because it took on a certain consistency among those who made debauchery a much more reliable guide, and that we only perceive its halftones in homosexual language. But this virulence, which is that of the Phantasm, manifests itself in the desiring under layer which escapes all communication of a purifying language and consciousness; which points to the incommunicable, a real path that sodomistic desire has used and in which it has long launched itself with all of its forces. This perversion, for it must be named, is entirely barbarous, meaning ferocious and delicious; it is the witness of the incommunicable in thevolte-facehidden from the civilization that produced it while it vitiates its foundations. Like a beast hidden underground that gorges itself on the roots of a diseased plant that the botanical bestiaries have baptized:Civitas Occidentalis.

It takes a happy coincidence – but rooted in the need for a calculated gesture, plotted even – for one day, an heir to barbarism, to push the door of a psychoanalyst’s office. He entered the building, crossed the empty waiting room – which has some Mannerist paintings on the wall that one often encounters without looking for it, either in the offices of Lacanian psychoanalysts or in the apartments of Parisian homosexuals. And it happens that one is in the other without disjunction: the office of a homosexual Lacanian. He enters the room where the analyst awaits him with assurance on his face and vice in his limbs. Our hero is called Monster and this is how he introduces himself to the analyst.

The analyst points to him where to sit on the divan, the monster half complies, standing straight on the edge, barely a buttock on it. Because it must be said that the monster, although filled with a dark intent – so dark that, I can already tell you, will leave a carcass of an analyst behind –, is wary; this is an obvious distrust when one stands facing a smooth body, that is to say devoid of anus, and facing a head full of mathematical signs, that is to say without the increased perception of this anus. Let us reaffirm that the analyst inspires no desire in the monster; the latter does not experience the least of it himself, except to cause the most sacred perversion to overflow from within his depths. Because if these two ended in this way, annihilated, it is because a sister nature is guessed for one and the other. One is waiting to be revealed, the other is the penetrating threat that performs it in this superb commercial gesture that is the complicity of two perverts.

The monster starts talking. And while he begins his discourse, initial tensions seize the analyst. They are there, we can be reassured, only all banal in counterpoint to the horrors that will come to seize him before the end of the session, in this long rattle similar to that of almost dead animals. The monster begins to speak, therefore, in a language that may seem confusing to those who only hear through the entanglement of ossified arguments of reason. However, I give it back to you as I can, from the depths of my desire, and in the greatest rationality that often castrates my mind, that which a psychoanalyst could hear, like a theory of the four discourses, but which does not follow any logical order here so long as the phantasm does not allow itself to be hemmed in by formal simplifications. It is the story of the gap, he says, the four discourses of monstrosity. Anyone who would try to reason there,would say of the monster that he distinguishes himself from other beings by four positions, each of which maintains a precise relationship, of choice or refusal, to the Thing and to the Notion, that is to say to the anus as a hole that swallows solids and the anus as an active principle of destruction. And it is through the display of a story of these different monsters celebrating, and destruction, and absorption, that his discourse is established. A kind ofLégende doréeturned on itself, seated above, since it is a question of making room there, not for holiness, but for infamous people.

The first is the discourse of the Thing exhibited with a force and a passion that no people have experienced since; it was the release of the Emperor Heliogabalus. The Monster tells backwards how Heliogabalus, from the sperm latrines, ended up in a shitty cradle. Still a teenager, this priest of the sun had given himself both to his mothers and to the older soldiers of his close guard. It was the conspiracy of mothers, full of resentment against Rome and its line of mediocre emperors, without the thickness of vice, which had made young Heliogabalus the candidate for the head of the City. After having defeated the enemy troops and other aspirants to the power, Heliogabalus was legitimately designated emperor and left his native Syria in a long priapic procession which ended at the gates of Rome. The monster marks the insistence: in this profession of faith, Heliogabalus had demanded that the chariot turn around in front of the Roman city; and the young man to spread his ass open making sure that the thick fortress, with all its soldiers, nobles and coachmen, penetrated him to his darkest entrails. The historical tragedy was not to have left enough time for this emperor to bring to earth the fusion of the Thing and the Notion through his gluttonous anus; and much has been made of his monstrous morals, but rarely of the grandeur of his project to establish the new order of perversion. He ended up having his throat cut and butchered in the latrines of his garden. Historians do not mention the slit throat, but I am certain that his sucking mouth was punished with such torture.

The analyst, hiding his amazement in the face of this strange patient, slowly nods his head at the long descriptions that the monster, a true believer in the faith of Heliogabalus, does not fail to provide. From the sound of ox hooves to the rattle of fornicating bodies on the chariot, to the warm colors of the spices that cover the body of the emperor and the incense that has been taken care to diffuse in the crowd, nothing is omitted and one recognizes there the attention to detail which was that of the Roman writers. The analyst fidgets, and it is as if something is just beginning to rise in him, tapping at the fundament; it is that he can no longer even manage to write in a straight line, his hand seems to choose to write diagonally, a few words as if he can no longer think except in strips. His body starts to unfold, he who has been crucified on himself for so long. I think it can be said that this is the moment when the Notion appeared to him as a constraint in the pursuit of his understanding.

This is an obvious consequence of the glorious life of Heliogabalus. Those who would not encounter any excitement in his lower fundament, on attentively listening to it, would definitely be a lost being, namely, a civilized one. We find in the history of this emperor a thousand times triumphant over Roman soldiers, and who succeeded in the great work of recruiting in the monstrosity more than half of the court and the city, the manual of all anarchy. Because the monster sees in the analyst the same walls and the same resistances as those of the Roman city, and it is necessary to make of his discourse, without the procession of the arguments, an attempt to destruction. The analyst has obviously not heard the project yet – he will only understand it further, that is, on all fours. But forces are alreadystirring within him and murmuring like little demons. They are about to appear outside of him; soon the exhibition of their presence.

We can only say this, with certainty, about the phantasm: there are geniuses within us, in other words, barbaric forces which only ask to rush out of the envelope and into the interior of the other as much as it can fill us. Because this is what the Monster must remind us of in the progressive oblivion of the phantasm: we are entirely caught up in the destruction, and that because it is the primary principle of the inflicting cracks, that enjoyment is possible. It is not a question here of operating in the abstract, or of convincing by rational language, but of following the disorganization of the body to find this principle engraved on the frontispiece of the dwelling of monsters: any surface of your body enjoys in abundance. And it is only when the mouth no longer serves to eat, the phallus to reproduce, the hands to carve tools and the anus to shit, that the body without a particle appears: and the mouth sucks, the phallus inundatesà tire-larigot [2], the hands wank and discover themselves stricken, and the anus is the receptacle of all that, like an immense jar of wine, like the Thing that still maintains something sacred in this lowly world.

Outside all the space of what can be said, outside any rational operation, therefore outsideconnaissance, the incommunicable, and its procession of impulses that we struggle to render through notions, heat up. At most, they can be grasped by the complot of monstrous souls: those who, from childhood stricken with the wrong, calculate the blow to be made and throw themselves into it in anger. Not for love of the result – a dissolution of minds and a destruction of overly organized muscle tissue, but for love of the process itself which leads to it and so aptly named: monstrosity.Connaissancecomes only with the result of the process of reason, and seeks to establish constants that can be repeated like two masses in a physics of collisions; it must be said that monstrosity is anon-connaissancethat attests to singularities so radical that the collision becomes a fight of the flesh from which no longer come organisms but nerve balls incapable of reorganizing. A physics of the general accident of asuppôt [3].

The monster continues its confused description of dark lives. The second discourse found its expression in the very body of an honest man – a president of the chamber! – becoming a sum of nerves that are constantly added, impossible to quantify. It is the discourse where the Thing realizes itself entirely, that is to say that the body is an immense anus, and just that, and that it receives the lights of the divine sun, and he raves in that warm energy. This is President Schreber’s discourse. The monster takes notes from his briefcase, clears his voice and reads with such ease that he seems to be doing it in his head, as if, having spent the whole night in a dimly lit office, he had repeated them more than a dozen times. He says they belong to a Viennese president and that he received them personally from a doctor. We can read:Memoirs of a neuropath or how I got fucked by the solar rays of God, was filled with his works and became his assumed wife. Translated from the language of the birds.He underlines as a kind of warning the curse suffered by those whose whole body seems to lose the organs, meaning, becoming disorganized into an immense mass of nerves which mutually excite each other as God forces himself in. It is a terrible fate to be fucked in theass by the Eternal and I do not wish it on anyone as the nervousness produced by the excitement borders on delirium and prints an endless debt, much worse than the mark of Cain. The analyst hardly succeeds in concealing his embarrassment; if he has already studied the case of this buggeress Schréber, the reading that the monster gives him breaks with all the serious scholar commentary.

Perversion can only emerge by taking the other obscure and irrational path that sodomites experience with every breath of air. Because homosexuals learn to speak twice; and under the language of reason which allows them to communicate to the civilized, the language of the birds moves; the incommunicable nervousness of monsters. Let us say again that perversion is the backstage of language and only the display of anal legends can make it perceptible in the demands it imposes on us daily, its constraint in irrational gestures; it is the brothel that offends History as it finds new candidates for its monstrosity. And History finds them by fornicating coachmen and emperors, priests of the sun and soldiers, a nervous president and God himself, in a fusion that could be said to be anarchy. For the monster, it is surely the greatest honor to be chosen by an heir of this perversion. He chooses it without any possible prior reasoning, outside the understanding or in the absolute margins of the latter, beings already marked by immoral heaviness and able to develop it in the hollow bottom of others. Our analyst bears the happy stigmata of it; he was grafted onto perversion, melted into it, from the first heat of childhood, let’s understand it, from the first cock in the neighborhood that he sucked. From the start, it’s about this rare thing of a barbarous aristocracy among the civilized: not the innocent, not the culprit, but the candidate. Candidate for integral monstrosity, he consents, and the resistances are not those of his desire, which is in any case tainted by the original disturbance, but entirely moral ramparts, that is to say rubbish and precarious.

To these two discourses where the unity of the Thing and the Notion is missing, respectively from the encompassing Notion for the first and from the spreading Thing for the second, succeeds the third discourse where both are missing. It is the terrible discourse of foreclosure, and it is called, for obvious reasons, the discourse of the Analyst in that the latter has never seen fit to speak of his anus since, therein lies the abomination, it has none: the Thing is absent there and the Notion is foreclosed. Because it is indeed in this way that in psychoanalysis we call the primordial rejection of the notion but confusing it with the phallus, we only blind ourselves to its true meaning, which is that of a closure of the body and of a closure of the senses: clogged anus, body not perforated,lalanguethat cannot break the resistances of my orifice when your mouth sticks to it. This is, without any hesitation, the most terrible discourse, since it is that of civilized bodies which dream of smooth surfaces. The monster does not take out any books or notes; it is that it is in front of him that the one who has foreclosed stands. Thus, the analyst senses that it is in question, of him. And of his body without a hole and straight as a T, an inverted phallus.

The monster affirms that every clinic is a clinic of the anus; and that it is a useless operation to attach the subject to the oedipal incests – which are pathetic incests here, since in their family it is only women who have been fucked and never have the anuses of the lame experienced the penetration of their flesh like the young Heliogabalus. A strange anal orthopedics is detailed by the monster who designates his victim by the nickname of smooth anal - it should be noted, for our monster, the vicious imagination palliates the sharpness ofthe spirit or perhaps makes fun of the disciples of Lacan. But we can say from there that it is the project which asserts itself and which now takes on consistency in the small study room.

“You have no anus, here is your shame! The non-holes wander!” At these words, the analyst turns around as if the invisible hand of the entire line he has just heard seizes him and places him, face crushed, on the desk. The monster walks up, pulls down the pants that have creased in excitement, and begins to describe what he sees there with the thoroughness of doctors who once attended to a royal fistula, head down. Bourbon. With the slight difference that the monster sees nothing; the body is, excluding hair, smooth; there is no trace of the thing or at least there is a small, tiny hole, barely wider than a pinhead. The monster opens his briefcase and takes out a huge dildo, which we do not know if it is longer than an arm or wider than a thigh, as well as a blank notebook, but ready to collect the observations of this unusual body.

He slides this dildo from the upper back down, from the neck to the elbow. He slips it like a snake in front of the torso, and makes an unexpected return to what the Ancients called the solar plexus, but where obviously the rays had no sodomistic entry. This body contains a curious exit but which in no way merges with the entrance so that its hole is closed to any foreign body while it opens intermittently to reject. This is the civilized hole, meaning, closed and with a delimited enclosure, furiously hostile to the outside. The social contract of the ass of the one who said: “This is mine and whoever wants to approach it, that is to say bugger me, will be an outlaw, brigand, pervert! ’. It is up to the monster to constrain it with the delicious barbarism of which he is the heir, to open it to its full circumference. And while his eyes are facing the curious citadel of flesh, he detects a small crack there which intrigues him to the highest degree. He grabs his notebook and writes: theory of the weakest carnal link.

It is through this that he will be able to introduce, in complete safety and with the best chances of success – the calculation is rapid although too skillful to be described here – the thick dildo that he has placed next to him, not far from his right hand which was busy writing while the left releases a buttock for the examination of the crack and the auscultation of the din of the accursed race which waits behind.

The analyst has no choice but to set his eyes on this object of torture. It is of mediocre construction, a point of unnecessary fantasy. A thousand miles from the baroque pomp he appreciates. In this dildo, stick and carrot, there is the happy conviction to come. In the notebook that the monster frantically fills and in which he represented the dildo, we can distinguish the title:Treaty of countersexual economy.It is that now the monster is an economist and details the trade of fluids, the points where they cut and then reconnect before re-intersecting. The monster speaks again and explains that he has grasped with great clarity the whole fable of the economy and its mysteries. That facing him is the privatized anus, the first fence erected by the civilized. For the monster, the thing is clear: you have to pull your anus to its limit, to the extreme immanent limit of capital. This economist repeats: “Production, absorption, retention, anal process.” Living money is the true standard, the measure of all things and of future commerce. The commercial fecal impaction discovered.There, where we can smell shit, we can smell money.

The great treatises on economics are homosexual, in other words monstrous: there is the one who wanted to test the economy in a peaderastic profession of faith by being buggered by the citadel that was offered to him, or again the one who sought in the delirium of the nerves the monetary crossings, and in the sumptuary expenditures the end of the debt to God. What is certain is that we have inherited from their lives and their writings, not models of action, but examples of the succubate to be realized here and now on earth. The monster in front of the analyst’s anus, which swells increasingly with blood and which seems to be urging you to be fucked, continues to write its economics treatise with one hand – the other still busy spreading the buttocks right so that nothing escapes his ass economist’s eye. The discovery of the sacred movement of the anus delivers the knowledge of civilization as a discovery of the impulsive forces which were concealed there and which are now exhibited, that is to say, compel to appear from the gap of where the economic flow comes out. What a Viennese psychoanalyst was able to sum up with the equation money = shit.

Rational language, that is, that of mercantilist economics and the Philosophers, has produced a closed and impenetrable anus; a representation of the sterile and the unproductive – this is an expeditious and unfair judgment because the anus, unlike the dick, produces no useless gadgets, children included. It is a fluid economy without the solid economy of language, and I challenge anyone to claim anything in it as permanent property and say, “Here is your debt! ’. Only homosexual desire can still account for the contours of the fantasy in the closure of the world and which the Monster discovers before the anal reflux of its captive: any political economy is above all a libidinal economy, in other words an economy of sperm and shit, whose center is a big sun that warms us with its energy. Whoever has no anus, no receptacle for solar radiation, is condemned to wander in this vast theater of deceit that is the civilizational world. The monster takes it for real in the face of the analyst, and we understand all the better the distrust he felt when he entered the cabinet: for how can one believe someone who has no anus? In any case, I am suspicious of those who have neither the notion nor the thing and who foreclose the place of the fight of the dark forces.

One would be surprised that the monster economist could still find some force in this exploration: it is because one discovers unused, obscure forces when one touches the limits of the world. But in this countersexuality, it is to the idea of the destruction to be produced that all vigor must be attributed; destruction not of the walls of the citadel, still less of all that flesh, but of the civilized obsession with a body without a hole. There is only one anal watchword, and that is complicity. Monstrous complicity that shows itself when the gap is reached. This is the fourth discourse, a discourse of fusion between the Notion and the Thing in a henceforth open unity. It is called the discourse of the Apocalypse or of integral monstrosity, in that the unbound power of impulsive forces is established against moral civilization.

And now this little crack becomes a blister as the monster’s fingers move back and forth with his pen along the red ramparts; just as the sighs of the analyst increase, and now resemble the throes of a big beast. The monster’s treatise fills with many pages, which he drops one by one in his frenzy. The scribe already has enough to publish at least two volumes of economics (volume I, 456 pages, illicit reproduction and use strictly limited to the public, ISBN not yet known, volume II in progress). In the cabinet, where one can only distinguish loose sheets every twenty seconds, the outcome seems close to the great displeasure of theanalyst, although it should be specified that it is filled with joy and excitement as evidenced by the pink bead emerging from its fundament. This is the drama of fantasy for anyone who gives in to their desire and finds many forces conspiring against your mind. The monster continues his investigation; so now the issue seems to be yawning and takes on the appearance of a gap that our analyst knows very well, at least from his expertise as a practitioner; still half-opens when we imagine the impossible thing – I call it nepotism of the anus to open up constantly to those we recognize as our accomplices and to ensure them a place deep inside us.

The analyst is lying on his stomach and seems to invoke no longer mathemes, no longer signifiers, but barbaric geniuses that his science ignores; the citadel is no more and the whole city is already absorbed in this abyss of nerves. He provokes the monster who is now grabbing the thick dildo, but undoubtedly, I think I can say, in this pile of leaves, that it was the analyst himself who grabbed it and introduced it into his ass. De-sublimated body. The analyst is no more. He becomes at the same time emperor asshole, wife of God, assassin of the self, Sodom on fire. But an analyst, certainly not. For he is both these things and nothing fixed at the same time. The anal movement is imprinted on him, which is not that of sublimation, of a vertical movement that goes up and down. And it is of course on him that the movement is imprinted, so much that he has become a body without organs, without organized interiority, and a pure surface of collisions and accidents: he is a movement of total reception of the foreigner and a movement of expulsion of sacrosanct images of morality. But there is no innocence to rediscover or recompose; because the treaty indicates that one must learn to make an anus. And even more, to learn how to draw his anus to term. These are two identical things, since it signs the end of everything when it is done – although the most delicate task is that of digging the hole. By the modesty that has been mine since the beginning of this story, I will not say anything about the extreme ardor of a voracious anus and the movement of extreme violence that came to destroy its insides. At most, once this scene had ended, when some milky fluid had flooded the desk and the carpet of the cabinet, there was no longer an analyst but two monsters. This is the culmination; and of all these discourses we find a formidable synthesis, like a spurt beyond oneself: the monstrous economy of thesuccubat.

Some, wiser than us, had been able to namemyroblytethis moment following the death of a holy man, while the oozing of the intact carcass gave off a delicate scent of myrrh. This was for sure the miraculous testimony of innocence, and they were said to be dead in the odor of sanctity. But these pious noses would in no way have encountered in the cabinet the expected aromatics, nor the bitter perfumes of the resins; to tell the truth, we only inhale miasmas of cum and shit when exacerbated by the sweat of the body within the new anus. Here themyroblyteis reversed. The monster comes out, the work being done, that is to say an infamous buggeress engendered – here is the payment for the session, an almost dead currency. The analyst sits up and, staggering like an animal exhausted from his race, throws himself on his couch. He exhales in a certain appeasement in the smell of monstrosity.

Quentin Dubois