Journal of the Marquis de Sade

There is nothing that makes one appreciate their age so much as losing it for a time, I think. My apologies to some of the people that I might have ... inconvenienced in my brief return to infancy, but most of you handled it very well.

...Some of you better than expected.

I find also that there is almost nothing that helps you to see how much you have changed, even from Inmate to Warden, in my particular case.

I find myself in better spirits of late. Renate does not tire me so easily on her walks any longer, though they are still rather trying. I do not go into the enclosure without my cane because I will find myself leaning upon it sooner or later. The pain returns like clockwork, but not so intensely. Often in other ways, as though the small ruptures in bone are not the problem so much as every organ, nerve, and sliver of muscle around them are working especially hard not to come into contact with them. It's a feeling of strain, most certainly.

Not the manner of agony I would use to inspire me, I'm afraid. I would thank Monsieur Sexby again but I fear at present all he shall do is stare at me blankly, like a cow at an oncoming coach. I cannot trouble myself with such things as memory loss, for I am feeling nostalgic.

I remember when I first came to the barge I found myself rather smitten with an innocent young Warden who had come aboard, by name of Giselle. It is so very, very rare that I feel the impulse to slip away from my familiar and comfortable perversions, the amusement that comes of shocking the more conservative, of discourse with persons given to a greater plane of understanding when it comes to my playful eccentricities. On occasion yes, even I find myself desirous of the preservation of more...innocent inclinations. Giselle was one such individual, perhaps because her innocence was so very genuine. This might come of the fact that she seemed to have existed in a world free of the evils that scarred the cratered, bloodsopped landscape that was my first life. I deigned to offer my arm as a gentleman would. I spoke sweet odes, wooed her as I would the gentle ladies and courtesans of my youth, tried ever-so-hard not to permit my body its characteristic stirrings when she would throw my arms about my neck and embrace me, trusting always my intentions and never knowing the struggles that come of traitorous bloodflow. It was some months before I no longer suffered such instinctual responses, and our relationship had changed considerably, understandably.

She and my Paviche, perhaps my two great loves aboard this ship, and of two very different breeds. My mind is too often set upon my work and little else. I rather think I would relish my next glorious pursuit, and so long as my dear Prefect is content to continue playing hard to get, I suppose I shall have to choose another, oui?

L'amour, my barge. We should all benefit from a little more of it in our lives.

This month seems to be attempting to form some irritating traditions around us. I believe that might be the third flood I've encountered with those effects. One would think they might be more eventful. Better that they're not, but self-control is a virtue so rarely praised on this ship.

Does no one ever question the sudden onset of obsession they feel for certain people? Especially when there has been nothing to build it upon save, perhaps, indifference? Anyone who has been in love knows it never happens that way.

[Private to Iago]

How are you feeling?

Well, I can't say I didn't have fun. Most should have been entirely too busy with their explorations to take much displeasure from the venture. I'm actually quite glad of the opportunity. Some say that we can never know the motivations of other living creatures because their perceptions differ so much from ours.

It's quite the experience to see, hear, smell, and travel within a familiar environment in such an unfamiliar way.

Of course the experience will have me in mind of bridles and riding crops for an age, I'm sure.

Iago, how did you fare?

A republication, my dearest readers, but I've managed to conceal it from those that are not curious enough to look. I pulled the only copy of 'Dialogue Between a Priest and a Dying Man' from the library that was written in English. The translation was so poorly done, that I found I should do one myself. It has been revised for clarity. Originally written in 1782, I am happy to bring it to you now. While I do not profess to still believe everything I originally penned here -- I'll let you decide what -- I have preserved it for the sake maintaining the original structure.

( Dialogue Between a Priest and a Dying Man )

[Ooc: The whole thing isn't there; the rest of the script can be found here. In summation though: probably his shortest writing ever -- about a Priest speaking to a dying man professing Atheism and Libertinage, and they have a discussion of philosophical importance -- to an extent. In the end the old man goes off to bonk some hot chicks and the priest joins him. Yay irreverence!]

Thank you for the use of your room during the flood, Henry, and I apologize for leaving it so late. It is yours again, however.

Doctor Jackson, and to all others that have contributed, thank you for the reading recommendations.

And now that all those pithy formalities have been taken care of, I wish to put the question to anyone who wants to give it some serious thought beyond "The Admiral enjoys making us suffer" because this can already be assumed:

What purpose does having our personalities forcibly changed serve?

And is this not the intention from the start? Why does the Admiral not simply make us the way he thinks we should be, if the whole point of this experience is to change us?

(ooc: once the flood wore off, the Marquis came back to himself and promptly realized he was sleeping in a bed that smelled like West. It got him a bit agitated. So there's now some long, flowery, pissed off letter written on West's bedsheets -- likely to be posted later -- the details of it, at least)