impure_tale (
impure_tale) wrote2009-06-17 12:04 pm
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68 - Claire Bennet
(ooc: this letter is addressed but he did not actually mark it as private)
Mademoiselle, the only thing that bars me from penning my long and heartfelt thanks to you on proper parchment is that I would be inspired to extend my sentiments on such fine material well past the number of pages that I have at my disposal. Such as these journals are, I believe a complete expression is better than an incomplete one. Before, I did not know you. Now I am only beginning, and before you deposited your gift at my door, I do not imagine that I could have comprehended the depths of charity that you carry in your heart -- which, given my past and rather brusque dealings with you, apologies or no, might have deemed a total stranger more deserving.
You are a fine Warden, Claire Bennet, and the example by which others should follow. You at least attempt to understand our plight here.
We are prisoners here, Claire -- not you and I -- but other Inmates, and myself, whether they use the word "Inmate" as a substitute for "Patient", or not. I've lived more than half a lifetime as a prisoner. We are not bound by any similar court of law. We come from societies many and divided, with their own morals, their own values and beliefs. But when all is done we are here, not by any natural means. Nature, herself, does not exist here. That which dies does not remain dead. Rules of ascension, of balance, are not maintained by even the very bowels of this vessel, much less by the man that navigates us. We are placed under the care of a mortal just as limited and flawed as we and must hope that the blind may lead the blind. The difference between a generally good Warden and a terrible Warden is that while one may mean well and try, the other remains willfully blind and still expects to be paid when they finally leave here.
I told you before that my writing is involuntary, as is the beating of my heart. I am not alone in this. What is writing for me is opiates for another, a simple potion, or pill, or injection to instill quiet in an otherwise raging mind, to fill the emptiness and turn weakness to strength. Or indulging a private voice that only one man can hear. Destruction for another -- one who craves their place as the driving force as a means of displacing their helplessness.
And my writing? Do I put quill to paper because I relish the reaction? Because I will accept my imprisonment only on my own terms?
The thing that I combat is loneliness, Mademoiselle. I am not confined at all times to my quarters as I once was, barred from communication, exercise, enrichment. But I have been before, and as transitory as this place is, I have more than once felt as though I were back in those forsaken dungeons. Claire, in my lifetime, I have gone as long as eighteen months without having a single word spoken to me, kind or unkind, broken by the odd fluke or command from a guard. I've been years without visitation or letters from family. Fed like an animal and left wasting. Sometimes a little charcoal and a roll of any kind of paper -- even toilet paper -- was all the company I could have. Can you blame the content of my prose when I have little else to turn to, no spirit to repeat the same journeys I have made before?
I do not want to become what I was when they kept me in the Bastille. I do not wish to be what I regressed to in my final days at Charenton. Once I was witness to the deaths of thousands by the guillotine, all murdered right outside my window. I told someone that it has left the deepest of scars on my person, and I have not been the same since. Here, it is the same. Rather than there be changes in face, even strangers that pass beneath my window, the endless procession to the guillotine, waiting for the crunch of the blade once more, are the same faces, again and again.
A Hell of Christian imagining could not have been nearly so potent.
I believe it is only through individuals such as yourself, Mademoiselle, that I shall ever be rid of that part of myself. You are young, and you still have much to learn -- I think it is a discredit to you that you must do it here, where the laws of a normal world do not always apply, but you have wisdom in spite of yourself, and a kind heart that you should guard above all else. I certainly no longer have the strength nor the will to try to damage it.
You helped me even when you were no longer obligated to provide. I hope you will not find it too forward of me, then, to say that if I am not intruding, I intend to look to your counsel in the future. Right now, yours is the only one I am willing to take to heart.
Yours in Obedience and Gratitude,
M. de Sade
Mademoiselle, the only thing that bars me from penning my long and heartfelt thanks to you on proper parchment is that I would be inspired to extend my sentiments on such fine material well past the number of pages that I have at my disposal. Such as these journals are, I believe a complete expression is better than an incomplete one. Before, I did not know you. Now I am only beginning, and before you deposited your gift at my door, I do not imagine that I could have comprehended the depths of charity that you carry in your heart -- which, given my past and rather brusque dealings with you, apologies or no, might have deemed a total stranger more deserving.
You are a fine Warden, Claire Bennet, and the example by which others should follow. You at least attempt to understand our plight here.
We are prisoners here, Claire -- not you and I -- but other Inmates, and myself, whether they use the word "Inmate" as a substitute for "Patient", or not. I've lived more than half a lifetime as a prisoner. We are not bound by any similar court of law. We come from societies many and divided, with their own morals, their own values and beliefs. But when all is done we are here, not by any natural means. Nature, herself, does not exist here. That which dies does not remain dead. Rules of ascension, of balance, are not maintained by even the very bowels of this vessel, much less by the man that navigates us. We are placed under the care of a mortal just as limited and flawed as we and must hope that the blind may lead the blind. The difference between a generally good Warden and a terrible Warden is that while one may mean well and try, the other remains willfully blind and still expects to be paid when they finally leave here.
I told you before that my writing is involuntary, as is the beating of my heart. I am not alone in this. What is writing for me is opiates for another, a simple potion, or pill, or injection to instill quiet in an otherwise raging mind, to fill the emptiness and turn weakness to strength. Or indulging a private voice that only one man can hear. Destruction for another -- one who craves their place as the driving force as a means of displacing their helplessness.
And my writing? Do I put quill to paper because I relish the reaction? Because I will accept my imprisonment only on my own terms?
The thing that I combat is loneliness, Mademoiselle. I am not confined at all times to my quarters as I once was, barred from communication, exercise, enrichment. But I have been before, and as transitory as this place is, I have more than once felt as though I were back in those forsaken dungeons. Claire, in my lifetime, I have gone as long as eighteen months without having a single word spoken to me, kind or unkind, broken by the odd fluke or command from a guard. I've been years without visitation or letters from family. Fed like an animal and left wasting. Sometimes a little charcoal and a roll of any kind of paper -- even toilet paper -- was all the company I could have. Can you blame the content of my prose when I have little else to turn to, no spirit to repeat the same journeys I have made before?
I do not want to become what I was when they kept me in the Bastille. I do not wish to be what I regressed to in my final days at Charenton. Once I was witness to the deaths of thousands by the guillotine, all murdered right outside my window. I told someone that it has left the deepest of scars on my person, and I have not been the same since. Here, it is the same. Rather than there be changes in face, even strangers that pass beneath my window, the endless procession to the guillotine, waiting for the crunch of the blade once more, are the same faces, again and again.
A Hell of Christian imagining could not have been nearly so potent.
I believe it is only through individuals such as yourself, Mademoiselle, that I shall ever be rid of that part of myself. You are young, and you still have much to learn -- I think it is a discredit to you that you must do it here, where the laws of a normal world do not always apply, but you have wisdom in spite of yourself, and a kind heart that you should guard above all else. I certainly no longer have the strength nor the will to try to damage it.
You helped me even when you were no longer obligated to provide. I hope you will not find it too forward of me, then, to say that if I am not intruding, I intend to look to your counsel in the future. Right now, yours is the only one I am willing to take to heart.
Yours in Obedience and Gratitude,
M. de Sade