/lit/ - Literature

>>13350530
>The cunt is a headless, wordless mouth. It’s the fuck in the forest overwritten by the narcotic platitude of the nightingale’s song in Jean Renoir’s Partie de campagne. It’s the black roots that squirm beneath the innocuous flower Mallarmé designates as the emissary of his ‘pure notion.’ The cunt is a ditch with an upturned car in it. The cunt fucks you up. First thing it says to you when you come out of it is ‘prepare yourself for death,’ but it doesn’t speak, it secretes. Its language is equivalent to the desecration of language—each emission betrays the logical speech of its cephalic double up top—that mouth in the head that will not shut up, that pontificates, instructs, and moralises ceaselessly. Against the logorrhoeic tyranny of the word, CUNT = DIGIT = ALGORITHM (AQ 94;13). A rotten sun, eater of eyes, extravagant zero, the night. Below all, the cunt is the abyss. Dangerous and open—that abyss that makes you want it against the other mouth’s better judgement.