gastax

Allright true believers, this time gastax lets a profound Argentine do the talking. Ernesto Sabato is the name and causing heart palpitations in women is his game:


Martin looked at her in silence, saddened by the shadows that kept forever stirring behind certain of Alejandra's phrases.

But then those thoughts were swept away like leaves before a violent wind. And as they clutched each other in their arms like two beings trying to swallow each other (he remembered), that strange rite, each time more savage, more profound, more desperate, took place once again. Swept along by his body, amid the tumult and the consternation of the flesh, Martin's soul tried to make itself heard by that other on the far side of the abyss. But that attempt at communication that was to end eventually in cries almost without hope had begun some time before, in the moments leading up to the climax: not only by way of the words that were said but also by way of looks and gestures, caresses, and even the clawing of their hands and the rending of their mouths. And Martin tried to reach, to feel, to understand Alejandra by touching her face, stroking her hair, kissing her ears, her neck, her breasts, her belly; like a dog in search of a hidden treasure that sniffs at the mysterious surface concealing it, that surface full of signs, signs that remain obscure and imperceptible to those whose senses are not attuned to them. And as the dog, suddenly sensing that the mysterious thing that it is searching for is closer, begins to dig with febrile, almost maddened fervor (cut off altogether from the outside world now, crazed and demented, all thought and feeling centered on that unique and powerful secret thing so close now), so Martin attacked Alejandra's body, trying to enter her so deeply that he would reach the very bottom of the dark, painful enigma: digging, biting, frantically penetrating and seeking to perceive the faint sounds, closer and closer now, of the secret, hidden soul of this being so cruelly near and so hopelessly far away. And as Martin probed, Alejandra perhaps struggled there on her own island, shouting a message in code that for him, Martin, was unintelligible, and for her, Alejandra, most likely pointless, and for both desperate.

And then as after a combat that has left the battlefield strewn with corpses and yet has settled nothing, both lay there in silence.