At first it seemed like a regular journal. Today I started the day with that coffee I love from the market, etc. But as I worked my way back toward the front, into the strange script that at every turn wished to devolve into a scribble, I found an anxious voice: I am sure that I loved chocolate, but now it tastes like wax. I think I was born in Winnemucca, but I did not grow up there. I think this is why I like sand. Though if the chocolate thing is right, then perhaps I have no idea what I like. I promise I won't go down there today. I promise.
The story of Sarrasine is not told by Sarrasine. Instead, it is long after his death. Some other man is lusting after a woman's body and seems to think he can trade the tale of the mysterious castrato for her body. It's as if this man thinks that revealing a mystery, little by little, is like undressing. As if the slow movement toward truth will somehow drive this woman into passionate embraces. It's as if he thinks that moving slowly toward the truth of identity is somehow at the heart of erotic pleasure.