He moves from black self hatred to enjoyment of the tortures to a godlike psychic state in which everything - colors, sounds, smells, the changing seasons - become fused erotic inputs.
Her voice was hot and sticky--like a furnace full of marshmallows."The explicit baseness of voyeurism which is this novel's ultimate subject is only interesting to those who have surrendered their life to voyeurism instead of living life. Specific to the book: surrealist literature was burdened by its artificial aping of its visual counterpart (it was perfected in magical realism, but surrealist literature is by-and-large a failure).
Transitions are poor, and the translation is wooden. This is a minor work for specialists only, and its only contribution to the average thinking man's horizons of knowledge is "what were they thinking" and since it concerns voyeuristic lust the inescapable conclusion "not very much."It is expected and obvious that the English language speaking public finds a surrealist masterpiece such as Louis Aragon's as intimately obscene, and on such grounds impregnates disparaging critiques that climax with inelegant statements pronounced with a stiff intellectual disregard.
Finally it is to the title that we must return our gaze.
It is the creative impulse turned inside out: the phallic lust is made absent to make for a wounded rational slip that engorges, engrosses and hides as it absorbes the thrsut of passion in favour of a fanciful praxis.
Here we do not find the graphic frames of admissable seductive contrivances of a DH Lawrence, rather we unveil a psycholyrical morphology that unsettles and unravels.