Claude Louis-Combet. The man almost became a priest, lost faith, and seems to have some problems with maternal figures. At the end what you get is, amongst other things :
A man surprising a sexual intercourse between a woman and a dog in a cabin lost in the depths of the woods.
Female mystics emptying themselves for God in various and quite entertaining ways. And yes, some of them do eat their poop.
A mother planning to take her little boy back inside her by suckling him, dissolving his flesh and everything and swallowing the whole. She also uses her vagina in the process but when you begin to know your Claude Louis-Combet, that's somewhat expected.
The man is obsessive, absolutely indifferent to any aspects of the contemporary world (or of the outside world in general), his characters are existing only to sink deeper and deeper in the indifferenciation of pure substance and this is the only sort of story he's interested in telling.
And thus, as any extreme writer, he's writing greatly. It is fascinating to read him turning around the flesh in all its crudity, dreaming about it, in a precise, quite distant and yet loving manner. The man adores his style as much as he adores his obsessions.
French-reading fellows, you should try Blesse, ronce noire - about Georg Trakl and his sister - , or Tsé-Tsé - the second part is the best thing I've read from him thus far, and a wonderful piece of prose.
A man surprising a sexual intercourse between a woman and a dog in a cabin lost in the depths of the woods.
Female mystics emptying themselves for God in various and quite entertaining ways. And yes, some of them do eat their poop.
A mother planning to take her little boy back inside her by suckling him, dissolving his flesh and everything and swallowing the whole. She also uses her vagina in the process but when you begin to know your Claude Louis-Combet, that's somewhat expected.
The man is obsessive, absolutely indifferent to any aspects of the contemporary world (or of the outside world in general), his characters are existing only to sink deeper and deeper in the indifferenciation of pure substance and this is the only sort of story he's interested in telling.
And thus, as any extreme writer, he's writing greatly. It is fascinating to read him turning around the flesh in all its crudity, dreaming about it, in a precise, quite distant and yet loving manner. The man adores his style as much as he adores his obsessions.
French-reading fellows, you should try Blesse, ronce noire - about Georg Trakl and his sister - , or Tsé-Tsé - the second part is the best thing I've read from him thus far, and a wonderful piece of prose.
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