pisanie o pisaniu
...przywodzi mi na myśl scenę z Pływającej opery Bartha, w której główny bohater podczas "pierwszego razu" spogląda w lustro i wybucha śmiechem
A seventeen-year-old boy is insatiable. His lust is a tall weed, which crushed repeatedly under the mower springs up again, green and unbowed. He is easily aroused and quickly satisfied, and easily aroused again. New to the manners of the business, I cried like a baby, bleated like a goat, roared like a lion. The time came, the lesson, when I was stallion indeed. . .
And then I looked into the mirror on my dresser, beside us -- an unusually large mirror, that gave back our images full-length and life-size -- and there we were: Betty June's face buried in the pillow, her scrawny little buttocks thrust skywards; me gangly as a whippet and braying like an ass. I exploded with laughter!
"What's the matter?" Betty June asked sharply.
I tossed and rolled and roared with laughter.
"I don't see anything funny!"
I couldn't answer. I couldn't comfort the nervous tears that ran from her, though I swear I tried. I couldn't help her at all, or myself. I bellowed and snorted with laughter, long after Betty June had fumed out of my bed, out of my room, out of my house, for the last time. I laughed through lunch, to Dad's amusement (and subsequent irritation). I laughed that night when I undressed.
I have said that my experience in the Argonne, not very long afterwards, was the second of two unforgettable demonstrations of my animality. This was the first. Nothing, to me, is so consistently, profoundly, earth-shakingly funny as we animals in the act of mating. Reader, if you are young and would live on love; if in the nights of intercourse you feel that you and your beloved are models for a Phidias -- then don't include among the trappings of your love-nest a good plate mirror. For a mirror can reflect only what it sees, and what it sees is funny.
Posty
