Vous êtes sorti sain et sauf des basses calomnies, vous avey conquis les coeurs.
One was kicked in the stomach until he vomited, then made to put back into his mouth what they had brought forth; when he tried to drown in his own stew he was recovered. "You are worse than a nigger or Jew,"
the helmeted one said. "You are an intellectal. I hate your brown skin; it makes me sick." The tall intense one, his penis wired, was shocked out of his senses in three seconds. Weakened, he watched them install
another battery in the crude electric device. The genitals of a third were beaten with a short wooden ruler: "Reach for your black balls. I'll show you how to make love." When two of the beaten passed
in the hall they did not know each other. "His face had turned into a wound: the nose was gone, the eyes ground so far back into the face they too seemed gone, the lips, puffed pieces of cracked blood." None of them was asked
anything. The clerks, the police, the booted ones, seemed content to inflict pain, to make, they said, each instant memorable and exquisite, reform the brain through the senses. "Kiss my boot and learn the taste of French shit."
Reader, does the heart demand that you bend to the live wound as you would bend to the familiar body of your beloved, to kiss the green flower which blooms always from the ground human and ripe with terror,
to face with love what we have made of hatred? We must live with what we are, you say, is enough. I taste death. I am among you and I accuse you where, secretly thrilled by the circus of excrement,
you study my strophes or yawn into the evening air, tired, not amused. Remember what you have said when from your pacific dream you awaken at last, deafened by the scream of your own stench. You are dead.