Written and Directed
“I don’t know who I am – my social engagements and roles look like a contract murder. We are all under fire because of everything in us that shows signs of life, but nobody has asked for it, i.e. our soul must be eliminated. Today it is shameful to have feelings, to be in love, it is absurd to be romantic..
You may, but inside Shakespeare or Schiller, always in translation. Justine and I plough anatomically a great denial, centimeter by centimeter, organ by organ, word by word: we are especially suspicious of them and of the thoughts they dress us in. We are beyond morality because nothing sacral has remained of us.
Our impudence springs out from some morbid shyness, from some deep emotionality. Whereas cynicism is desperate romanticism, we are exhibitionist doubles, a pair of mirrors, one opposite the other, that endlessly multiply what is hidden in the genitals of fear, the abyss covered with desires, the lust that pretends to be art.
We articulate without interpreting; we traverse the infinity, the pain, the negation, the secret, but there is no way out—everything leads us into sanctity. The poet must name things in order to be sure that they exist. In an uprooted, disenchanted and inconsolable world, poets are modest – they are simply alert.
Justine is not a character in the traditional meaning of the word. The more steadily you look at her, she disappears. The more steadily you look at yourself, you see her. In Sade Justine is also doomed to non-existence – her body is being desecrated, dismembered, plundered and finally enjoyed by God through the lightning he sends to her. It is a rubber body that erases from God’s face his human names. Because God is a sadist, or has to prove that he is not, life is a tiresome exercise in blasphemy.
Justine is an abyss, not a woman. She has no sex because she is the absolute femininity: she is a beacon, darkness, thought, an echo, a prophet, a ghost, dogma, pieta, a breath, a refrain, a rib, an ocean, a phantasm, measure and the instrument by which all is measured. She pleasures herself and desecrates herself because in the prairies of life the happiness to love is cremated, whereas the explanations are washed with detergents and everything is disinfected.
The measure of the soul is the beyond, its own beyond, the forbidden, everything she, the woman, is afraid to name, to overstep, to touch. Justin is the forbidden itself. Sex and death are synonymous to her. However, the radical waiver of sexuality is not a waiver of gender. Sex without Eros decorticates and devastates, cuts the eye as in that film of Bunuel and Dali and leaves us to look gropingly for our soul. The erotic is the ever-ripening enamoredness, while sex is the ever-perishing pleasure” - Irinia Delina