The broken Mist

Cunts Are Still Running the World

Posted in Uncategorized by Jiménez-Smith on September 25, 2008

Aye my lads. And so do I, escape my duties. Because of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn I haven’t fulfilled my scholar devoirs and my commitment with this blog. On the one hand I have to read lots of stuff for the school and I’m eager to do so because today I had a wondrous class on sonnet. On the other hand, I have not posted. So, why am I posting? Procrastination? Whim? Both of them? Probably not. Probably all of them. Probably it is my way of feeling less guilty with this blog and with my other duties; why my other duties? Because this is not a proper post. This is going to be a QUOTATION. A big one. Regarding Henry Miller’s novel, I’m loving it. That is all I’m willing to say for the time being. Enjoy.

With the refinements that come with maturity the smells faded out, to be replaced by only one other distinctly memorable, distinctly pleasurable smell-the odor of the cunt. More particularly the odor that lingers on the fingers after playing with a woman, for, if it has not been noticed before, this smell is even more enjoyable, perhaps because it already carries with it the perfume of the past tense, than the odor of the cunt itself. But this odor, which belongs to maturity, is but a faint odor compared with the odors attaching to childhood. It is an odor which evaporates, almost as quickly in the mind’s imagination, as in reality. One can remember many things about the woman one has loved but it is hard to remember the smell of her cunt-with anything like certitude. The smell of wet hair, on the other hand, a woman’s wet hair, is much more powerful and lasting-why, I don’t know. I can remember even now, after almost forty years, the smell of my Aunt Tillie’s hair after she had taken a shampoo. This shampoo was performed in the kitchen which was always overheated. Usually it was a late Saturday afternoon, in preparation for a ball, which meant again another singular thing-that there would appear a cavalry sergeant with very beautiful yellow stripes, a singularly handsome sergeant who even to my eyes was far too gracious, manly and intelligent for an imbecile such as my Aunt Tillie. But anyway, there she sat on a little stool by the kitchen table drying her hair with a towel. Beside her was a little lamp with a smoked chimney and beside the lamp two curling irons the very sight of which filled me with an inexplicable loathing.

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