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Updated: June 19, 2025
But the courage of this Ego deserted Him and He grew frightened when He came to give body to His most useless creation Thought. And He compromised. Yes, I could live among people fashioned truthfully in their own images as are the crustaceans." With this entry Mallare found it necessary to destroy the work his hands had created. He attacked the canvases and figures in his red room.
Ah, tired warriors covered with the grime of battle they troop back to my mind out of the dark. Mallare returns. But what a caricature! See him like a fanatic priest driving the devil out of his soul with whips. "This would be a God, this hermaphroditic prostitute who fondles himself at night. Mallare ... weep. Whips will not rid you of this monster. Mallare, the plaything.
The little name, the one that made a pantomime on your lips. The one that stared at me with letters. Bring me my name, I will understand its meaning. My other name has flown away. Listen. Let me whisper. Bring it to me and I will place it like a gate before the door of enchantments. I will kneel to it. Windows break in my head. Mallare ... are you Mallare? No, you are this.
From the Journal of Mallare dated December. "Her murder was simple. We stood under an arc lamp and my hands killed her. I remember her face looking imploringly at me. And when I went away I leaned over and kissed her hair. She was dead in the street. It was simple. "Now I must kill again. It is no longer simple. I must teach her to hate me. She will vanish then. It is clear in my thought.
Remember then that Mallare has it in his power to send you to his dwarf, to make you take her place over his terrible body. And Mallare will do this if you annoy him too much. And then, sickened with you as he was with her, he will disgorge another shadow. Let us be frank about this. I warn you. "Thus I sit and talk quietly to this weeping one. And when I stop I watch his lips move with my name.
And see, they whimper under me. The dumb one lies in a corner and even his tears are ended. And this sad eyed one, weary with intolerable visions, and this one whose ears are filled with voices all of them whimper under me. But I must feel no pity for them. Mallare rides away like a star.... "'And she dissolves. Vale Rita! The red and yellow dress again.
For a moment the mad idea came to me that she was visible to Goliath that he was watching us me and this figment of mine. My anger was shame. My senses are logical in their pretenses. How can I stand out against them, if they grow cleverer than I, more persuasive than I, and lead me finally into the total madness of accepting them as Mallare the one Mallare, the lunatic who has escaped himself?
They kick gravely at a carcass. Lie beneath them and watch Mallare dance away, whirl away with lecherous shadows in his arms. But she will die too. I am thinking of death. Mallare the egoist asks alms of death! "Windows break inside me. I look out of broken windows. I am gone and away. Empty rooms. My hands feel walls. Mallare asks pity of darkness. Pity him." She sat looking out of the window.
"Go 'way," he answered. Mallare nodded. "Thanks," he smiled. "You reminded me in time. It is easy to mistake you for one of my creations. Although I never created such eyes, improbable eyes alive with murders. Go to bed." Alone amid the wreckage, Mallare turned to his Journal.
She was no longer the childish-minded gypsy girl he had found with the caravan. She was a fantasy of Mallare. There was no body to her but the body of his curious thoughts. A silent and adoring image of his brain stared back at him from the vermilion couch. This pleased him. His madness had translated her into his inner world. At moments a gleam of doubt disturbed his illusion.
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