/lit/ - Literature

>>10480051
(Keep in mind this is supposed to be tongue-in-cheek and a bit ridiculous)

It was on the morning of my twenty-third birthday that I discovered—a scene lit, it seems to me from posterity’s vantage, by some ineffable quality of the dramatic, a delicious caprice of irony, such as one encounters in comic operas or Greek tragedies—an unknown shadow of a man rutting away at my intended in a manner that recalled (with a certain je ne sais quoi) Pasiphaë and the Bull of Crete. One need not further elucidate the sequence which followed, as it is rote, ordained to pass in the selfsame manner the day (it could not have been the sixth, for the quality of the beast’s barbaric thrusting and eyes shot with red comported nothing of the image of God) that cuckolds were cursed to walk the earth. It was, however, and taking after the general willingness of Providence to huff and let her favor fall upon other heads, to my chagrin that I was betrothed to the great beauty of the age, a certain Eugénie A— (her surname I shall leave to the reader’s imagination, for fear that the old crone’s birds still tweet into her ear), the daughter of a then grande dame (for the benefit of us all she has seen it fit to shuffle off her mortal coil, and none too soon), who had herself been the great beauty of Bonaparte’s epoch, and a striking officer of the Grande Armée, who, having failed his emperor at Lützen, thought it better to deign to the lesser rank of a Bourbon master.