I just published The Adorable Curse of Love. When Love rhymes with Death, Then Life rhymes with Dust To Dust. And six feet under, the earth is warm and cozy. You can smell the mud and you can hear the worms. You can dream of what is coming next or you can just go to sleep in eternal unconsciousness. No reason why you should accept to survive after death or live again after your own burial. It is so convenient for the living to imagine there is anything after death: it keeps them voracious at the dinner table that they would neglect if they knew they were nothing but a nursery of fodder for worms

2. LOVE IS A REAL ADORABLE CURSE
AN UNTELLABLE STORY
A dramatic Confession
THE NINETEEN STATIONS OF SARAPHIC LOVE
James Crittle, a famous pilot of the French Air Force, later turned
university professor, on February 18, 2015, was found dead in full uniform Rue
Montmartre in Paris. He had used some cyanide to put an end to his life. The
French Air Force took over his funeral in Bordeaux, but Joseph and Magdalena
Seth, two young people who had been his friends up to three years before when
James Crittle stepped out of their life without any explanation, hearing the news
on the radio decided to claim his body since he had no known direct relatives.
They are entrusted then with an important envelope addressed to them
and that contains the manuscript of this “Untellable Story” and my name and
contact. I had been James Crittle’s friend some fifty years earlier when I was
going to the university and met him then. He had obviously kept track of me over
these years.
I here try to give you his confession, since he calls it a confession, about
his first twenty years in this life and I just try to put, as far as I can, this text into
perspective with an introduction. Joseph and Magdalena Seth added a short
conclusion. Most of the pictures and illustrations were in the initial envelope. We
decided to use them, with some prudence though because some of the people on
these pictures are totally unknown to us and they were not identified.
We also retained some documents from East Germany and the USA and
his military papers, considering they had nothing to do with this “Untellable Story.”
Jacques COULARDEAU
Olliergues, France
March 14, 2015
Format : Format Kindle
Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 201 pages
Utilisation simultanée de l'appareil : Illimité
Editeur : Editions La Dondaine; Édition : 1 (13 mars 2015)
Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
Langue : Anglais
ASIN: B00UP4CX88
Synthèse vocale : Activée
$8.51-EUR7,84

3. GIVE OR TAKE TODAY 1
“Take a step ahead
“A step forward
“It’s enough to be told
“To be liberated
“It’s enough to tell
“To be free.”
Listen to the story
To the story teller
The voice of some phoenix
Abandoned in the night
Forlorn in rejection
Rises from his own ashes
The ashes of his trauma
God bless the child!
Rod of Rebirth
(Bordeaux, Tour Pey-Berland)
[Inspired from Hildegard von Bingen]
I salute you, wand evergreen
Erected strong and vigorous by the wind
Summoned by our sensuous prayers
Your time has finally come
To bloom and blossom between our limbs

4. Climaxing its fertility
I salute you, rod evergreen
You satiate my thirst
My inner fire inflames you
With the noesis of love
CRUCIFIED NIGHTMARE
“There is in every one of us . . . a type of desire that is
terrible, wild, and lawless . . . Shall we just carelessly allow
children to hear any casual tales which may be devised by
casual persons . . . ? Anything received into the mind at that
age is likely to become indelible and unalterable . . .”
My dear Plato, what about any casual act from any non
casual person performed casually on a child? Is there any road
to rebirth from such acts? Is the noesis of spiritual and mental
love, not to speak of carnal sex, enough to purge the mind and
the body of these casual events?
“Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in storytelling,
and our story shall be the education of our heroes.”
MENTAL BACKFLOW
ONE
Have you ever gone on a trip in your mind?
Have you ever tried to shift yourself back to your past?
“You will remember this one! He is such a pig! He never stops
inventing new tricks!”
“Don’t you think you’re harsh? A little bit too harsh?”
“He will remember this one, I’m telling you!”

5. I was so small, insignificant, sitting in my little bed in the dark front
room of the millhouse. I heard the church clock, but I could not count then.
It was the afternoon. . .
It is the afternoon. I can hear them talking in the kitchen next door. My
mum and her shrill voice. My aunt and her deeper voice. Two voices. To
and fro, left and right, up and down, and I alone in the dark room. Alone
with myself. Calling never helps. Better wait in silence. Prepare a present,
an offering, a part of me and myself for them when they come. A little bit
here, and a little bit there. It is warm to the fingers. It does not taste like
anything. Or at least I don’t remember the taste or the smell, maybe it had a
taste and a smell but I don’t smell, I don’t taste.
A flash of light. The door opens. A shadow in the light.
“What! That! Not again! You pig! You’re going to pay this time and
remember next time . . . before doing it again!”
She picks me up like a piece of wood. She takes me to the kitchen. She
pulls the big basin from under the sink. She gets me right in the middle of
it, standing. And she pours a couple of buckets of water on my head.
“Isn’t that too cold, Simone?”
“That will teach him a lesson!”
She takes a hard straw brush and some soap and starts brushing me with
the brush from top to toe, particularly in the middle, front and back. And I
enjoy it. I enjoy her. She is, they are taking care of me. I love their hands
on my skin, the brush on my flesh.
“Look at that! Two years and a half and he is as hard as a bull in heat.
He must like the brush and the water! Pervert!”
I love it. I want some more. May it last for ever. Their hands, their
fingers, her hands, her fingers, the brush. I feel light, I feel dizzy.
“And let me clean the inside too with my fingers! Pig!”
I feel like when I am full with grub and want to go to sleep. I yawn and
she just puts the washrag with soap in my mouth.
“Will you finally become clean as clean you should be? You did that
yesterday, and you do it today again. I will brush your skin raw if I need to,
but you will stop being a pig. I’m telling you, you will be clean and the
sooner the better.”
That voice, that music, up and down it goes, up and down and around. I
could follow the music, the voice, turn, and turn again, and dance to that
harmonious chant and discordant dirge, as if I were a leaf in the wind, a
bird in a tree, smoke in the sky.

6. And my memory gets blank. That was so long ago. That was so far
away in the dark wings of the stage I was strutting on under the brush, and
the show was going on, but the limelight got dim and the dance, the music,
the chant, the dirge went off, vanished and here I am lost in temporal
translation between two doors, two corridors, two layers of pleasurable
pain. What on earth do I find in that exquisite pain?