Transgressive sexual depictions in literature

[Robin Landseadel]

On Sep 8, 2010, at 10:30 AM, Ian Livingston wrote:

> And what about that there Louis Ferdinand Celine and all his subjects
> of the mysterious powerful? And Gide, Artaud, and the other French
> underground types? While P. inclines to be more graphic, thus calling
> down the ire of Puritania, he hardly seems to be introducing anything,
> for gosh sakes. I can't qualify it, but I am inclined to believe P had
> encountered all of the above by the time he got round to finishing GR.

	Prairie wouldn't be off work for a couple of hours. Zoyd needed
	cash and also some advice about a quick change of
	appearance, and both were available from the landscape
	contractor Zoyd did some lawn and tree work for, Millard Hobbs,
	a former actor who'd begun as a company logo and ended up
	as majority owner of what'd been a modest enough lawn-care
	service its founder, a reader of forbidden books, had named
	The Marquis de Sod. Originally Millard had only been hired to
	be in a couple of locally produced late-night TV commercials in
	which, holding a giant bullwhip, he appeared in knee socks,
	buckle shoes, cutoff trousers, blouse, and platinum wig, all
	borrowed from his wife, Blodwen. "Crabgrass won't be'ave?" he
	inquired in a species of French accent. "Haw, haw! No problem! 	Zhust  
call--- The Marquis de Sod. .. . 'E'll wheep your lawn into
	shepp!" Pretty soon the business was booming, expanding into
	pool and tree service, and so much profit rolling in that Millard
	one time thought to take a few points instead of the fee up front.
	People out in the non-Tubal world began mistaking him for the
	real owner, by then usually off on vacation someplace, and
	Millard, being an actor, started believing them. Little by little he
	kept buying in and learning the Business, as well as
	elaborating the scripts of his commercials from those old split
	30's during the vampire shift to what were now often five-minute
	prime-time micromovies, with music and special effects
	increasingly subbed out to artisans as far away as Marin, in
	which the Marquis, his wardrobe now upgraded into an
	authentic eighteenth-century costume, might carry on a
	dialogue with some substandard lawn while lashing away at it
	with his bullwhip, each grass blade in extreme close-up being
	seen to have a face and little mouth, out of which, in
	thousandfold-echoplexed chorus, would come piping, "More,
	more! We love eet!" The Marquis, leaning down playfully, "Ah
	cahn't 'ear you!" Presently the grass would start to sing the
	company jingle, to a, by then, postdisco arrangement of the
	Marseillaise ---

		A lawn savant, who'll lop a tree-ee-uh,
		Nobody beats Mar-Quis de Sod!