already a rebel I was already a rebel at the age of eight. It was entrenched deeply in my personality. I had already seen too much. I was fed up. Some sort of subterranean reflex kicked in and I began to make myself ugly, perhaps in reaction to the environment in which I was living, which tended not to move for a long time, then shift violently to a new position. I did my best to entertain myself, but by and large I became habituated to an intense boredom. I dreamt of becoming Prince of Arabia, but Arabia was far away. I invented masochistic fantasies. Because I could not simply obliterate my existence, I turned against my flesh. Existing in those conditions was a long and subtle torture, so I became a connoisseur of that. This attitude persisted long after the conditions that gave birth to it ceased to be real. Human life is like a tree, and it is marked by the crises it undergoes. Fire, flood, drought, disease—at least the crises of trees are physical. They are not submitted to propaganda, conditioning. I am trying to remember if there was ever a time in my life when I believed that the circumstances in which I lived were benevolent and just, but in the first dream I remember, which occurred when I was five or six, I was descending a long slide into a lake of blood. When I was fifteen, I used to look into the eyes of passersby on the streets of my hometown, and what I saw there frightened me. "There is nothing inside!" I was certainly a sullen child. I saw death in the eyes of everyone. I was cursed with what we consider a normal upbringing. I didn't like it, and to rebel against it, I cultivated the perverse. The final result is who I am today. The excess momentum of my childhood has propelled me here. I am thoroughly alienated, and it will be necessary to recreate the world from its origins before I can fit in. At least, I have learned to be eloquent.
	location: Paris date: October 1992 average rating: 8.00 (1 vote) your rating (0-10):