Marquis De Sade’s genes pressed down and covered in gravestone ivy. An influence so great, it would spark a thousand fireworks into the public’s collective sex organs. One son not uncovered by the leaves surrounding his graveside, is Georges LeConne. He inherited the alleles of literary genius from Sade. This is apparent in the single (one page long) and only known work to exist by his son recently rediscovered (surviving in his breast pocket in the outhouse of Robert Graves’s estate) and causing great excitement in many literary circles, cafes and underground reading rooms. Little is known of his life. I will piece together from the fragments available- an intimate picture of this man and then present you the piece not yet released already considered both a masterpiece and at the same time a piece of guava.
A short biography of Georges LeConne
Rumours are rampant and running along like stray dogs that during Marquis’s eleven years in the Parisian prisons he was held captive in, he made love every night to the grime and rust hugging the cells bars, and from these constant efforts and alchemy, out of the pregnant metal formed a baby boy. A more likely raison d'être (satisfying scientific reason too) is that during this period, a young women disguised as a night call guard of her husband or father (accounts are ambiguous on this detail), came to him and of their relations became the baby boy Georges. As a bastard child there is a rarefaction of references of him in comparison to Sade’s other children whom all get their fifteen minutes of fame in the various biographies out there.
Some accounts were unearthed by dedicated scholars who gleaned the diaries and letters of some of the prostitutes he frequented.
“Would you stop it let me fucking write, whore! Jesus fucking Christ” these expletives would then in her account move on swiftly to the sodomy he impassioned “he would pull me by the ears against the dampness of the coldest wall, where my skin was benumbed and then he would scream at the top of his lungs JESUS IN MY COCK possessing you my nymph!”
Another prostitute recounts, “He would ask me to smell his tail sometimes, drunk under the stench of bodily fluids”. The tail cost a fortune and was grafted on by a Renaissance man whose main profession and means of income was via the optician’s guild. The film maker Luis Buniel tried to film this side of George’s life, but got distracted by ants and Dali’s hankering. The censors told him when he tried to revive the project for a second time that new laws enacted in Mexico (at this period of his life he was making films there) that he would have to re-enact all the scenes of the film himself in real life before they would permit it’s making. This was under a new government initiative called ‘performance based freedom of works of art’.
Excess and winding down his dowry was to be his downfall. He was a gentleman as well as a rouge and brute, and as such had affluent tastes in clothes and food; eating at the most famous restaurants quickly got the moths on the scent of his wallet.
Some say he would have made a great family man had he not a penchant for incest which he dreamt about on a daily basis. This was his one sadness, no family meant no incest; he felt lacking in this and even developed an insecurity complex, which lead to him sobbing in the bosoms of those who charged him more and more taking advantage of his burgeoning frailty.
When his money unsurprisingly ran out he realised he had no friends, family or admirers. He had lost them all so dedicated he was to sodomy; he gave his life for it. He did not know how to do anything else, work was out of the question, so was asking for help, for these things did not exist for him, all he knew was love, rape, forcing a women’s bones to tremble and obsessive romanticisation of incest. In his later years he addressed all prostitutes as daughter. He was also very anal about protein intake, he even paid extra for those he frequented, to give them extra vibrancy in their thighs and to improve their motion in sodomy.
The exigency of Sade’s alleles wishes were realised when his literary passion was pressed upon by faith, when he was sent by the court to the care of Doctor Dupinn. It was rumoured they were quite cosy together. The doctor he was treated by soon became maimed by the mob, broke off all relations with Georges. Leaving the young man untreated and his ravenous, sexual appetite for sodomy lacking gratification. He was let free as the doctor feigned his sanity or was so insane himself as to see Georges as a healthy minded individual.
Georges with only a few pennies left spiralled into madness, one of the ladies he frequented enquired to LeConne in this period ‘cant we do something normal for once LeConne?’ Georges with maddening eyes forming fire globules retorted ‘I’ll show you normal’ and he dug his fingernails deep into her spine, like a badger on opium, until a crevasse formed and just enough room for the tip of his penis to play out the ecstasy he craved. He buried it deep into her spine, she cried and cried, and he already in trouble with the authorities keep her quiet by paying her more money than she had ever seen into her waterfall face. The strain of his excesses took its toll at the end of his life, a man who although only thirty two, would be often mistaken for a man in his seventies. He was forced to live in into the wilderness, penniless and disenchanted with nothing to sustain his desires and this was to be his death, in Robert Grave’s outdoor toilet. (poet, best known for his work ‘The White Goddess’ which in the Sade book of sadistic translations is ‘Le Sperme a Couvert la Déesse’).
One scholar Edward Vermeer describes his last moments quite poetically "he called out for help, thought the toilet was a light, a beacon of help, but what brought him to this point? Mad and malnourished, he could not stand the bird’s singing, so sweet, perhaps in light of the character he was, seeing two animals mating would have given him the sustenance to live on, but in the remote wilderness nothing but the omens of death sung by the birds, the crazy drones of his lungs dying from deprivation..."
A more accurate description and widely accepted as the more likely to have happened, relates to an incident between Graves and Georges. Graves was enraged by an episode a few years prior where Georges embarrassed his daughter; an incident we have opaque knowledge about although there is no doubt it is related to sodomy, for Georges knew no other form of communication. Grave took his revenge, meticulous in mapping out the trail that would be Georges’ last trot. First he invited him to one of his favourite restaurants, poisoning him, silently following his trail, through the pine spiced woods. He led him to the outhouse by premeditated seduction, which involved yelping and acting out the sound of palaver, miming a young girl in distress from the direction of the outdoor toilet. He then made a chink in the outhouse, so he could voyeuristically and delightfully take in the view of his atrophied victim, who was to die in the faeces of the family members he dishonoured. An overflowing toilet, contrived three hours before and there ends poor Georges LeConne’s life.
An introduction to his work
This piece, a modern literary masterpiece in the form of the letter is a measurement of great perversity, as if Édouard Manet painted the world into the crisp, manila envelope of man’s expressions, crystallized as a protocol of depravity, lettering a brilliant defiance of all society’s instructions. This letter is an instrument of great reverence to his father, even if unbeknownst to him his father tried to buggar him while in the womb on one occasion after he and his mother got Baudelaire vanilla ice-cream (a brand at that time which was also known as an aphrodisiac) in the local saloon (Sade was allowed a day out once in a full moon while in captivation).
‘The convergence of Bastardization and Urbanisation’ studies came to the fore of discussions about his father s work after the letter surfaced.
Publishers have refused to release this work of art to the public, for the conceivable difficulty in marketing a letter one page long, and monetising it along with the same price for a book of poetry, letter or novel. There have been suggestions that Grove Press (publishing home of works by great artists such as Burrough, Beckett and Malcolm X) are planning a book, allocating forty pages to introduce it, then the piece itself in the middle followed by a commentary running over fifty pages long. This might possibly be released autumn of next.
Literary criticisms of the letter are mixed. Bloom spoke of it as badly written that “disappears into the dirt under my fingernails”. In comparison a more positive view is taken by Wright who admits to having only read the first two lines (his theory now named Wrightism is that all texts should be critical appraised by merit of their first two lines as the causative nature of the rest of the text means it represents an excess of the literary substance of the human experience and therefore should be ignored in analysis. Here is the essence of Wight’s view on Georges’ letter:
‘It is a beautiful epithet, a testament to man’s sexuality...a precursor to the text message and sex texts talk , such sex texts talk as “ cum babez blimb all over my sex bi” might not exist without this masterpiece, and the glorious epithets found in bathrooms all over the world, are predicated in this letter, some of the letter is scrawled on the bowl of the toilet seat as well as the paper he clung on to with dear life...’
It has been praised for a superb use of double entendre and a maddening genius of perceptive rotation like a kaleidoscope of styles and movements to name a few that have been linked with it; Fauvism, Pre-Raphaelitism, Pointillism, Film Noir, Vorticism and the Augustans. There is controversy that Georges copied the letter from his doctor and passed it off as his own creation. The fact that he writes from his doctor’s perspective makes it very appealing for study by OBE (out of body) theorists and method actors. Without further ado here is the unabridged version of Georges LeConne letter.
The Letter (estimate date written circa 1850)
Dear Georges,
It has come to my attention that you have been attending our institute for over four weeks and it is of this time, I am to inform you of your impeding faith. I will try my hand at persuading you to reconsider your position, from stubbornness to affability. Do you wish to stay here for the rest of your days? You may be allowed out half the week but the board are seriously considering detaining you here full-time, as you volunteered to come here under the court case's terms. I am to cure you as I dangle this cigar and stroke its fine brown fur, you of all people will understand the pleasure a man gets from idolising material transits. I want you to know that I will do all that is in my power to free you. I bequeath you my knowledge and I know you do not really believe you were born onto this earth by a praying mantis. I know you are an intelligent individual, the tests and our talks so far have proved thus far. But if you do not give up some of your beliefs, they will be interpreted as sadistic and will be used against you to pin you as a sick minded individual, not the same man who invented a paint that can change colour depending on the personality of the room at any given day. Your inventive mind will rot here and what I do here is not a productive exercise in humanity but one that is so futile I tell myself that these patients are meant to perish and I am their reaper. I play games with myself to make it less pointless and cruel, when I poke the eyes of patient with fruit acids and syrups made from bat hides I tell myself that he enjoys it or when I ram a rod up a female patients uterus tell myself she is a dirty slut, that she likes it, the more she screams for help, for me to stop, the more aroused she is I gather. I have called this condition institute mayhem, there is a way of things we do here, there is an order to our malefaction you have so far gotten off lightly as we have not made a decision on you, our methods would not go awry in the medieval pastures of medical profession, cleaves, drips of sewer. I examined the x-rays and as you said there were several abnormal bones lying in the pit of your stomach; I trust you now and you have my continued confidentiality. Anyway enough of the formalities- I do not get paid enough to care past the fourth paragraph- my duty is done, the board have gotten the cock in their mouths, now they say if you know a guy for over twenty hours, you are basically brothers, so as such we may flirt a bit more once the initial results and board discussions subside. Write to me, disown all your admirable beliefs or else explain your fragility in such a way to absent yourselves from this inferno. There is something I will let you know of myself that you persistently ask to know, yes I was once a patient here, who better to understand the sick impulses and behaviour than one of your own. I have had the pleasure of fucking your young wife as you no doubt will agree was an even greater pleasure knowing she was yours than some other unripe muff, most don't understand how these desires work, but you will forgive me for being so excited, did I mention we did it over forty times, something I have not reached in a long time, when she awoke, I smeared the blood on her cheeks and scrawled a little symbol that you may be familiar, the phallic symbol embalmed with my urine is a true representation of our civilization. I hope she is resting well with you now, it was on my consciousness that you did not know the great pleasure she gave to me while asleep in custody that night, I remember the flecks of rain, impaling the gorse bush out back, the redness of her back increasing with every throb of my cock, it still lingers on my mind. I am glad we understand each other. I have met patients who find me quite repugnant and act quite averse so you will understand I have to show them the right, correct manner of their appointment to this institute. It was not pleasant nor will I say anymore, their names are now with the lilies out back, each and everyone, withered and defrocked appropriately. For your own sake if you persist with your beliefs, that you had to rape the father of three and you had to burn his youngest child's genitalia, for you believe art is a physical will enforced on the world by desires whispered in your ear and heart by Pigfaced caped angels that cannot be impeded for imagination and inventiveness are our fullest expression of our existence . My words will not die yet, a slumber I am looking forward to just one more thing, The board will use this against you and send you to the enclaves of criminally insane guano, either one means that the right to use your mouth is as much as you are afforded every other orifice will be used as they see fit. They have a new deal with fragrance giant Odeur Succulent, so if you are lucky you will become a bloody perfume. {smiley face scrawled but faded throughout years exposed to the elements and now resembling abstract dots, another great artistic technique not yet thought of by his contemporaries, the dots representing the chaos that is inflicted on all objects that cross the threshold of its quantum space }
Yours professionally, Doctor Dupinn
( Pier Paolo Pasolini accursed (murdered the same year as film released) by attempting to represent Sade's bastard child in the final scene of his interpretive adaptation of 120 days of Sodom)
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