The Necrophiliac by Gabrielle Wittkop Page A

fraternity, the love that united me to Suzanne, but their splendour moves me and I want to keep them a long time.
October 18, 19...
    I put them to bed in the arms of one another, interlacing them tenderly, placing the lips of the brother against those of the sister, putting the sleeping sex of the one between the delicate nymphs of the other, at the entrance to that crack with a pallor and tightness that reminded me of the one belonging to the little octopus girl, the one who vomited black juice. I wanted their bodies, which so often in life had to call to each other in secret, to be united finally in death. For I know that these two loved each other as the sky loves the earth. And the one wanted to save the other and the other took the one along. Brought along by love, into the depths, into the salt and the seaweed, into the foam and the sands, into the icy sea currents that are stirred up by the stare of the moon and become as agitated as semen. It wasn’t with me that they celebrated their sublime honeymoon, but at the precise instant when the one clung on to the other, the two had exhaled their life at the same time in a shared rapture, united in the water as they were once united in the maternal liquid, in the mother sea as in their own mother, discovering themselves again in their end as they had been confused at their beginning. They had reached their cosmic truth, foreign to the lying world of the living. I contemplated them a long time, recognizing in the spectacle a sort of grace. Not for a moment did I dream of interfering with them, troubling their union with the impure contact of my living flesh.
October 20, 19...
    My chaste resolutions abandoned me yesterday evening for a moment, I confess. I was seated near them on the bed, and just for fun, I nibbled the neck of the boy — or was it the girl? — at the precise spot where it comes from the base of the skull, the round container of which I could feel on my upper lip. My mouth started a delicious journey on its own, lightly mounting and descending along the vertebrae as if exploring a varied landscape in which the slightest protrusions integrate themselves into the vastest undulations of plains and mountains. I went from dorsal desert to that lumbar valley, full of feeling and tenderness — a place that always infinitely moves me — before progressing into the little arid plateau that lies in front of the ravine of delights. My hands followed the journey of my tongue, forming a nonchalant rearguard. During this whole tour, my sex was inert; this was nothing for me but a chaste caress. But when my fingers reached that valley dug out behind the waist and my nails brushed against that precise vertebra that was secretly robust for having, through osmosis, absorbed the aggression of belts, the desire washed over me with such violence that I was completely lost. Beside myself, I passed my head quickly under a thigh — was it the girl’s or the boy’s? — and stuck my mouth to the angelic point where their sexes touched. Their sexes: two infant mollusks, quite soft, flaccid, and covered with that pinkish hue that appears on the skin of the dead when the flesh is going to start changing. My excitation had put me into a sort of delirium, and I’d hardly started passionately licking the point of encounter where these beautiful dead creatures united my desire, when I thought I would die myself and inundated myself, moaning. And unexpectedly, for that matter, for it had been months since I’d managed any sort of ecstasy.
October 22, 19...
    My angels radiate a rainbow. How beautiful they are. Their union: Trionfo délia Morte . . .
October 28, 19...
    From time to time, I correct their position, for my beautiful dead ones with the white nails are deteriorating. They opened their sad shadowy mouths; their necks are folded like stems touched by frost. Their violet and green skin . . . Their members are getting lopsided.
    It has been a