Author: Harriet Daimler (Iris Owens)

About: The third solo effort by author Daimler gives us a contemporary recreation of all the scenes from de Sade's Bedroom Philosophers. They deserve much credit for their thoroughness, and author Daimler gets kudos for her wit and early attempt at post-modernism.

Excerpt:

“There are no orders,” hissed Clarissa, “in a phantiverse of mythoreals and illusiomats.”

“Give her a minute to cogito,” Lorenzo blasted. “Remember,” he cried for mercy, “she's only fifteen and a virgin.”

“To achieve sublimination, Althea,” Clarissa supplied the answer. “If I could conceive of the penultimate, I'd call it ultimate sublimination.”

The word beamed out of her like the Statue of Liberty come to essence. “To establish that in the phantiverse there are no acts, emotions, morals, myths, matter or men.

“To establish that we, defactified corponots, must, in order to subfuge essence, attain subliminality.” There was a silence that was the howling of all defactified men of all defactified time in the onrushing Buick.

“Why,” she lowered her voice, “do we waste our timelessness dramaguising books?”

“Because,” interrupted Lorenzo, “authors are the most deadly illusiomats of all, and the things they created the most mythoreal dangerous.”

“Do not interrupt me, Lorenzo,” Clarissa snapped.

“Well, you asked,” he dared.

“I ask nothing,” she swerved the car in emotion. “I cogito that it takes a receptor to perceive question, and therefore I never ask anything. Don't dig that trap for me, Lorenzo.”

“You get more Nei Sheng every day,” he muttered, realizing in himself that he would have to defactify her when he was more powerful in the Organization. He'd get her to dramaguise Anna Karenina and throw herself in front of the BMT. Happy illusiomat train; she might not make a bad Emma Bovary, scarfing down all that illusiomat arsenic.

“Having defactified interruption,” continued the indomitable Clarissa, “I will now go under. Books,” she spat out the word, “are the most laughable illusiomats of all the illusiomats. In books,” and the word was always agony on her adrenalin, “we have the grand contract made between corponot and corponot. What is the grand contract,” she didn't ask. “It is the simple swindle, the simple Houdini convenience of, if you say I have essence, I'll say you have essence. Yes, there's the rubbish!

“Authors,” she spluttered, “There they sit, reflecting on the phantiverse. Putting it all down on paper, making their slimy little observations on the phantiverse. Not the subliminal. Oh no, no observations can be made on the subliminal, but on the phantiverse! They've got to make that nickel. They've got to go around assuring all the corponots, sure you've got essence, of course you've got essence. Here, read my book, It'll fill you with feelings of essence. And that isn't enough. They've got to delude readers and non-readers with mythoreals about history, love, religion, baseball, science, mombo-ing, government, sleeping, chewing gum, fucking, fertilizing, success, bobby pins, life, death truth, honor. And doesn't the phantiverse love it! Oh doesn't the phantiverse just eat it up. Yes, there's no sublimination between thieves.

“But we,” her words hushed, “we the few subliminates can no longer support this contract between corponots of if you say I have essence, I'll say you have essence.”

“Support,” warned Lorenzo, “has been defactified.”

“So have we,” spake Clarissa, “what do you think you're subliminating by that!”

“In the case of De Sade,” quickly interjected Lorenzo, turning gently to the fifteen-year-old virgin between himself and the leader, “we have a clear field for defactification. Because one, he writes of acts: sucking, flagellation, frigging, and pollution, amongst others, insinuating that acts have essence;

“Two, he writes of morals: don't do it in the front, do it in the rear; never while you're polluting a member allow the head of said member to be covered, never, never, never; young girls should be devirginized with massy pricks; young boys should be sodomized with massy pricks; and thus,” explained Lorenzo, “he bores us with his do-this-don't-do-that hog-calling, insinuating that orals have essence;

“Three, he writes of emotions: hate your mother; love your father; always inflict pain; it feels better to fuck after flagellation than before; it's grand to masturbate while the slaves cut off each other's cocks, it's terrible to have a husband who doesn't shit in your mouth; and on and on, insinuating that pleasure or pain has essence. And finally,” lamented Lorenzo, “he writes, assuming that writing has essence. On these four points alone...

“Clarissa,” he spoke sharply, “why are you pulling the emergency brakes of this illusiomat automobile? You will cause me to split this golden hair.”