[Reader-list] within List: spitting in Literature

[inder salim]

Dear all

As we all know, within the Sarai reader List, there is a gentle man
whose name is Aditya Raj kaul who 'spits' on my thinking,  and who
continues  to spit on me even after I tried to know the reason.
Although his  likeminded friends are silent on the issue, but he is
certainly not without alone in desire to spit on me.   I tried to find
ways to understand the history and tradition of spitting in our
culture.  Lal Ded of ancient Kahsmir,  came to my mind first, but
unfortunately he found me comparing myself with the great spiritual
saint.  Now my mind goes to literature. I found  this 'spitting'  in
Jean Genet's master piece  in The Miracle of The Rose, entirely in a
different sense.  Again, it is not my aim to compare the situations,
but I want to share what things 'spitting' can trigger.  For example,
when Oscar Wilde was arrested, people spat on him, which he remembered
painfully  every hour of the each day in  the prison.  I am keen to
know, what else it can trigger in others minds, but, right now, here
is  the passage from the  great Novel:

Page 255-257

I TAKE THE SUFFERING UPON MYSELF AND I SPEAK…….

' The colony then became one of the most agonizing dens of hell. It
remained sunny for the flowers, foliage and bees, but it contained
evil. Every tree, flower and bee, the blue sky, the lawn, became props
of an infernal place and site. The scents remained scents and the pure
air just as pure, but evil was in them. They became dangerous. I was
in the centre of a moral hell whose purpose was my torment. Van Roy
came up to me with a rather casual air and a faint smile on his lips
Pointing to the fr end of the yard, he said :

" all right, get going "
' my lips were dry. Without answering, I walked ahead and, without
being told, stood against the back wall, the one facing the latrines.
>From there we could not be seen by those who were playing in front of
the cottage under the super-vision of the head of the family, and they
 must have been given order to keep away during the entire recreation
period. When I arrived, the seven big shots, who were standing with
their hands in their pockets, engaged in discussion, stopped talking.
Van Roy cried out in a joyoung tone:
" here we go, boyd ! fifty feet away "

' He placed himself in front of me, at the said distance, and yelled:
" open your mug, you bitch "
 I dit not move. The big shots laughed. I dared not look at Divers,
but I felt he was as excited as the others. Van Roy yelled again:
" you going to open that dirty mug of yours "
 ' I opened my mouth.
" wider "
' he came up to me and spread my jaws with his steel grip. I stayed
that way. He took his distance again, leaned over  a bit to the right,
aimed, and spat into my mouth. An almost unconscious movement of
deglutition made me swallow the gob. The seven of them howled with
joy. He had spat straight, but he made them pipe down so as not to
attract the attention of the head of the family.
 " your turn "he cried to the others.

' then he grabbed Deloffre by the shoulders- Deloffre was laughing –
and , pulling him over to the place he had just left, made him take
the same stance. Still shaking with laughter , Deloffre spat in my
eyes. The seven of them took their turn, infact several times,
including Dirvers. I received the spit in my distended mouth , which
fatigue failed to close.  Yet a trifle would have sufficed for  |the
ghastly game to be transformed into a courtly one and for me to be
covered not with spit but with roses that had been tossed at me.  For
as the gestures were the same, it would not have been hard for destiny
to change everything: the game is organized ….. youngsters make the
gesture of hurling…. It would cost no more for them to hurl happiness.
We were in the middle of the most flowery park in France. I waited the
roses. I prayed God to alter his intention just a little, to make a
false movement so that the children, ceasing to hate me, would love
me. They would have gone on with the game….. but with their hands full
of flowers, for it would have taken so little for love to enter Vay
Roy's heart instead of hate. Vay Roy had invented this punishment. But
as the big shots grew more and more excited, their gusto and high
spirits began to gain on me. They moved closer and closer until they
were near me, and their aim got worse and worse. I saw them spread
their legs and draw back, like an archer stringing a blow, and make a
slight forward movement as the gob spirited. I was hit in the face and
was soon slimier than prickhead under the discharge.  I was then
invested with deep gravity. I was no longer the adulterous woman being
stoned. I was the object of an amours rite. I wanted them to spit more
and  thicker slime. Deloffre was the first to realize what was
happening. He pointed to a particular part of my tight-fitting pants
and cried out:

" hey!look at this pussy.  It is making him come, the bitch "

 At that point, I closed my mouth and started wiping my face with
sleeve. Vay Roy rushed at me. | He butted me in the belly and knocked
me against the wall. The others stopping him. '

………………………………………………………………

The Miracle of the Rose (in French: Miracle de la rose) is a 1946 book
by Jean Genet about his experiences as a detainee in Mettray Penal
Colony and Fontevrault prison. This autobiographical work has a
non-linear structure: stories from Genet's adolescence are mixed in
with his experiences as a thirty year old man at Fontevrault prison.
At Mettray, Genet describes homosexual erotic desires for his fellow
adolescent detainees. There is also a fantastical dimension to the
narrative, particularly in Fontevrault passages concerning a prisoner
called Harcamone who is condemned to death for murder. Genet idolises
Harcamone and writes poetically about the rare occasions on which he
catches a glimpse of this character. Genet was detained in Mettray
Penal Colony between 2 September 1926 and 1 March 1929, after which,
at the age of 18, he joined the Foreign Legion.






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