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Title: A “Female”
Author: Renzo Novatore
Language: en
Topics: egoist, individualist, women
Source: Retrieved on June  6, 2011 from https://sites.google.com/site/anarchyinitaly/renzo-novatore/a-female

Renzo Novatore

A “Female”

“I love you most of all, when the joy flees from your oppressed brow;

when your heart drowns itself in horror, when the horrible cloud of the

past extends over your present.”

— Charles Baudelaire

I am a strange, cursed poet.

Everything that is abnormal and perverse has a morbid allure for me.

My spirit — a venomous butterfly with divine features — is attracted to

the sinful scents that waft out from the flowers of evil.

Today I sing of the perverse beauty of a “female” — of one of our

females that I have never possessed and will never possess...

Now she wanders, nameless, forgotten and ignored, through the twisted

paths of life, with such a deep, dark sorrow locked inside her heart

that it raises her above Women and makes her divine.

This great flower of evil — contaminated and contaminating — holds so

much human purity within itself that it sublimates a life, making it

divine.

Female?

Yes; perhaps!

A strange tale circulates around her name. It says: Her beautiful and

wicked body languished in the arms of vagabonds and thieves, late night

revelers and poets, rebels and heroes...

All the monsters of the night knew the voluptuous secrets of her pale

flesh...

All those thirsty for love drank from her lips...

But wherever she passed, she left broken hearts and bleeding minds,

weeping flesh and spirits in revolt...

For she — this madwoman — was — like Zarathustra’s poem — a dionysian

Harp of voluptuousness for everyone and for no one.

While her wicked and trembling body lay wrapped in voluptuous spasms on

the bed of love, swept away in the great chasms of devotion, her

restless, vagabond, rebel spirit wandered through the endless regions of

the infinite to give body to an intangible, ethereal dream. Her mind,

sick from solitude and distance, never let itself be swept away by the

spasmodic fever of her insatiable flesh...

She loved only herself...

One of those who held the fragrant, perverse body of this pale “Female”

in his arms cast into her — unfortunately fertile — womb the fatal seeds

of another most unhappy life. Under the imperious commandment of Nature,

the “Female” became Mother. And society, which had been unjust,

vindictive and cruel to the Female, was also against the Mother and even

the child. Alone and powerless — he was thrown into the overwhelming

storm of life, prey to the saddest loneliness that comes from misery and

desperation.

The mother, alone, mocked, persecuted, cursed, scorned. He, sad and

melancholy, was a premature victim in his turn.

I focus my eyes on the mysterious dawn of this strange Female mind, so

that I can gather its dispersed ruin and reconstruct its secret.

I know that beneath the dionysian playfulness of these perverse and

dissolute creatures, a fine thread of mysterious melancholy almost

always runs...

Through my reconstructive poetic imagination, I again see the adolescent

virgin when the hot, perverse sun of voluptuousness and pleasure first

plunged like a golden blade into her flesh that throbbed with desire,

making the irresistible cry of exuberant youth thunder in her mind:

love, love, love!

It may have been a mild, fair dawn; it may have been a red twilight.

She gave herself to the first loving embrace, and from that day, her

body was a Harp of voluptuousness, a poem of pleasure, seized by pagan

fire; a hymn of intoxication sung beyond good and evil, where free

spirits celebrate the iconoclastic rite to the joy of human life.

But beneath the dionysian playfulness of this perverse and dissolute

creature a fine thread of mysterious melancholy ran.

One day — perhaps one of those sad days when the stars, by means of

their occult, magnetic forces, forewarn a being of the dark fatality of

his destiny — on a path swarming with people in a large, noisy city,

three or four pistol shots rang out.

A pale youth reached the horrendous peak of the most tragic desperation,

before falling, exhausted and defeated, into the mud on the path. He

wanted to make an unfeeling humanity that ignores everything hear the

dark thunder of his protest.

A sad and tragic thing.

Together with a member of shameful humanity, a comrade in vengeance

falls.

Who was the pale youth who transformed his slender, lily-white hand into

and avenger’s claw?

The son of the rebel Female, of the uninhibited one!

At the tragic announcement, the perverse Female bent over like a

melancholy weeping willow under the raging hurricane, and was purified

in the great sorrow of the Mother who was mortally wounded in the most

intimate and secret of all her emotions! The voluptuous flower of evil

cleanses its soul, perhaps impure but beautiful, in the divine and

blessed dew of weeping, and becomes a lilac-flower of pure and

uncontaminated beauty.

That unfeeling mind of hers, which no one had ever fully possessed, was

reserved to gather the great sorrow that the son of her own belly had to

bring her in order to avenge her while avenging himself.

The dissolute and playful “Female” is now the lonely, nameless Mother,

locked in the circle of her sorrow, silent and tragic like an

impenetrable sphinx who walks the polluted paths of life, maybe

pardoning, maybe cursing...

The raging Anarchy of her free instinct has merged with the delicate

sensibility of her new maternal emotion, and from the condensation of

these two deeply human elements a spirituality must now shine that is so

enchanting that it radiates utterly unknown constellations of human

sorrow.

I open my mouth wide toward the unknown and loudly call to this

Female-mother, greeting her with the name of Sister!

“Woman”?

What does she matter to me?

This Female now lives beyond her: on a higher peak! I love the dissolute

and playful creatures beneath whose dionysian paganism a fine thread of

mysterious melancholy runs; and I love them best when the horrible cloud

of their past extends itself over their present...