TXT The Exquisite Corpse by Alfred Chester doc free full selling bookTXT The Exquisite Corpse by Alfred Chester doc free full selling book
At the end of the green corridor, a woman appeared, a large fat woman in a pink nightgown with two babies in her arms. She too began screaming. Husband and wife were yielding up nightmare screams. Yet, despite all their terror and desperation, Baby heard in their voices and read in their faces something that said At Last. At Last the faceless nameless horror that lurked, that marched, that ran, that followed, that flowed, that crept under doors, that gnawed, that knocked, that rapped, that sighed, that whispered, that threw its black shadow, that poured its hot breath, that watched from nowhere and everywhere- At Last it had appeared. At Last its presence was upon them.Me?Baby Poorpoor thought: Can it be me?I have this image of Alfred Chester watching over someone as they sleep. He would almost touch their hair with an open hand. Or he would tousle it in a tell tale left over manner for the morning, depending on how much sweet was missing from the bitter longing. I feel like he was doing this for the characters in his book. To see someone who does not see you, and the left over ache from that kind of unrequited love. If you shook them really hard their faces would settle back into inscrutable coldness that did not include you. Would you believe in what you saw before they had time to construct a mask?What happens in The Exquisite Corpse stays between the lines, underneath the surface. What happens as an event will not be the same when you meet them again. They look like strangers outside, with new names and places theyve been. A woman will lose her baby in exchange for a changeling. A never mind on the lips when it is too late to matter to the one who was given away. She will not be with her Husband (Ellen, a social worker) again, or will stay with a man she meets in the woods. She is someone else now. A man will murder and later his victim will be alive once more. It is always too late when it matters to the one who was sacrificed. I guess this might bother some readers. I was interested in that the truths stayed the same the way that they did. Virginia Woolf wrote in her essay A Room of Ones Own about a kind of truth that didnt necessarily happen. I liked that Chester was interested in this kind of truth too. It didnt matter what it looked like on the outside as much as it felt on the inside. He had a fairy tale inside the kaleidoscope of modern hardship. Nightmares of fathers telling their kids they always loved them when what if they didnt die for real and you had to face the chance that they would let you down again as they always did. Listen, mister, I admit theres a resemblance to what Tommy used to look like. But my Tommy has a sweet crippled face now and a heart of gold. And I love him. I will as long as I live. He bought me that car there- a lot of shit you handsome guys ever buy anybody.Once upon a time there was an infant. His mother calls him Emilio. Once upon a time there was a father to say he was named after him. Maybe his mother gave up her real baby to ugly on the inside fairies. This isnt my son. Hes a changeling. In one reality she will take him on her back in search for what belongs to her. It all broke my heart for what could happen next.A young island girl writes to an advice column about the changed face of her wealthy American lover who used to take care of her. What it must have looked like making love in the dark and now with the light on, now that he doesnt trust her to love his deformed face. She has the voice of a religious zealot who must ask another for permission to feel what they really feel. She speaks one thing and means another. She sells herself in windows in Amsterdam. My ex boyfriend once described to me what this looked like. This girl must have sat in a window waiting to hear what she was worth in this way all her life. Her old boyfriend must have been waiting for something just the same. I liked that it still felt sad when he didnt trust her. Like maybe it would have been different for either of them in someone said something other than a price. I am not religious but maybe what people felt like when their faith gave them strength they wouldnt believe in without it. There once lived a man who loved a beautiful young man. There are a lot of men like this and I felt the price again. The mother of the baby has to go looking for dollars (never more than two) in her husbands breasts. What would it be like for them if the cost was never named between any of them.The But I love you I can imagine pleading, as an excuse, underneath everything wouldnt need to wait until everyone else was asleep.But theres a moment when he goes to look for the beautiful young man, always at a price for all, there passes an understanding between him and the wrong beautiful man grown up. Hands together on the table. I dont believe it is him and I wish it was. The fantasies always feel this impossible what ifs sweetness. The Christmas carolers defeat the Warden underneath the gates of Sing Sing. Mary reads the mysterious smiles correctly on the unreal faces of the pretend mothers. Shes accepted on a lie, sacrificing her real baby for a false one, to be one of them. The day comes when you know what the right thing to say is. The Exquisite Corpse is made up of so many afraid to say out loud dreams that it is hard to call it a story as much as a sighing I wish. The edge that pricks, forbidding rest in peace of mind that was purchased. Their features change and the pain still bleeds in everything. Id call it surreal if I didnt always know where I was from how it hurt. I had this feeling about Alfred Chester that he wanted to be anyone else and his characters could be someone else and still not escape it. It felt like talking to yourself. I dont know how to describe the relief in that you cant erase yourself no matter how much you may want to. If you could just get rid of that than nothing would matter. It makes sense to me that the ugly love is beautiful even if you hate it with every fiber of your being yourself. My feeling is that Alfred Chester hated himself. The closet comparison I can make is Jean Genet. If youve read Our Lady of the Flowers and remember the poop love scene? There are parts much grosser than that in Corpse (and for that reason I cant imagine many embracing it. My one gr friend to read it described it as too sick). Its the guts womb and if youve got to live in it its pretty incredible that someone could find beauty in that kind of life. The after dark and abandon. Its cathartic if youve ever had to live with that kind of low self esteem. You also wish hed get off his knees and love himself too. The reality of being someone else you can see apart from yourself can be a needed shake. You wish hed watch over himself as he slept too. The open palm of love for others and the hard fist for his own face. It will settle back into its face no matter what, but maybe for a time.... Its a knowledge when you are asleep. Maybe one day youll believe it. Alfred Chester didnt but once he tried and that kinda kills me.
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