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Updated: June 19, 2025
Goliath, masturbating with a phantom but not as Mallare had done. No, not as Mallare who had lain indifferent beside his Frankenstein. For Goliath's arms were around her, his legs entwined her. His body, an insanity in itself, made a mate beneath her more incredible than she. There was silence. Then she screamed! "Yes, Mallare closed his eyes. A coldness tip-toed out of his heart.
Let us study the phenomenon of red hands. Primo how do I know there was blood? My eyes said, 'blood. And the snow is red. But that is only because my eyes, infatuated with an idea, repeat the information. "But I, Mallare, who am no madman's pawn, no lickspittle secretary to my senses, I say, 'no blood. I am the Pope. I excommunicate the phenomenon.
I remained with my eyes watching and repeating cautiously to myself the warning. "Here was a trick too baffling for Mallare. Mallare must suspend himself, close his eyes and climb slowly back into his black heaven. "'Then Goliath too is a phantom, I thought. 'But careful, be careful, Mallare. That is too easy. And you remember. It is dangerous to hide from too many memories.
"Ah, if there is blood, I fought with one who could bleed. And even my cleverness could not supply arteries in a phantom. Ergo, there is no blood. I am still mad. I see that which is not. But it is nothing to be disturbed about. In fact, it is a diversion." The snow slowly covered the figure of Mallare. His drawn eyes balanced themselves amid the flakes.
Yes ... yes the green and orange shawl again. Put them on. Bravo Rita! Tragedy bows in a decorative anti-climax. Little one, Mallare banishes thee from His heaven where thou becamest too intimate. Because thou sought to seduce His worshippers. Vale! Mallare disgorges thee. Spit not at Me, little one, for I am only a smile.
I was noticing the excitement of his huge head when it came to me with a curious feeling he was looking at her. Yes, Goliath my servant was looking not at me. But at her! "'Careful, Mallare, be careful, I thought. The insane sniveling of this lodge brother distracted me. His arms came around me and he rested his head on me and wept. Insufferable ass! It was impossible to think.
Mallare closed his eyes, a God shuddering before His own atheism. Yes, rhetoric now. It is easy to write. My words embroider themselves. "But then, when the laugh struck Mallare! Ah, there was curious mutiny. They went away. The little Mallares who worship me went away, all but one. The dumb one. Yes, I write of him again.
She wondered where he went. He would return in the evenings with gifts. This had continued for a month. Then had begun a more curious existence. One night Mallare had said to her: "You must never talk to me any more but listen always to what I say. If you remain here you will have everything you wish. But you must not go outside. Do you understand?" She closed her black eyes and nodded.
They hid the vivid marks on her body. Dressed in her gypsy clothes she came into the room again. It would be long to wait. But darkness would come and then he would open the door again. She lay down on the couch and sighed. Mallare, wrapped in a heavy overcoat, his hands in thick gloves, walked from his door into the street. The cold straightened him.
Far away into a house where he is alone." The last entry in the Journal of Mallare undated. "Talk to me, Mallare. Tell me. Where am I? He grows larger, this dumb one. He moves away, growing larger. He defies distance. He grows too large to see. But his tears remain. "Whisper to me, Mallare. He vanishes and I must sneak after him. Call me back. He is strange. His darkness lures me out of my heaven.
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