Black Books

The question of my mystery. I have no mystery-pleasure and the sensation of pleasure-what’s that for a mystery?

That is only a happening and nothing more. It is the devilish guile of Philemon to let me sense a mystery behind this.

It is certainly Philemon who hatched this thought, and not this man.

How could a man come to a such a thought?

Pleasure is the sensation of pleasure and nothing further. Why should there be a mystery behind this?

Why does this man ask me about a mystery behind this?

Who gave him this crazy thought? Who goaded him to the impertinence to ask me such?

To attribute such a crazy thought to me? Who other than Philemon?

Only his evil art can produce such thoughts, that stick to one like a robe of Nessus.

But I have no mystery, it is madness to ask me about mysteries, impertinence, cruelty.

There is nothing behind sensation, no mystery, nothing beyond or within it.

It is sensation alone-yes, laugh at my tears-sensation is sensation, pleasure is pleasure, displeasure is displeasure and nothing further.

I do not want there to be a mystery within it-that is a disgusting, crazy thought, dirty and stupid. Β ~Salome, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 190-191