The singular love of Pygmalion for an ivory doll.

Mythology

the singular love of Pygmalion
for an ivory doll



BEGINNING OF THE TALE


One day, lived in the island of Cyprus A young sculptor of talent with the name of Pygmalion He complained about the defaults that nature had filled the women Misogyne, he had decided to never get married His art alone was enough for him. "Oh women! Imperfect creatures, all different But at the same time all similar Why are you not one, and only one or all in one, And who would be all perfect to love! " "What is then my madness To want to love them all. What is then this madness To chase them from Africa, from Asia or from Europa To crunch them with black flesh, or white or yellow To want to love them all But to love no one of them What is then my madness! " To chase out of his mind and of his life the object of his disapproval He had decided to cisel in the solid ivory The perfect woman who would gather in a single one The qualities of all these other women who furnished his dreams And Pygmalion tackled the block of ivory to make something spout out What would be the most lovely A woman without physical defects as much as moral And who would be the proof of the imperfection, provided to them, by nature. He worked night after night Hammering and engraving the ivory to make an exquisite work But he was never satisfied He worked day after day and under his skilful fingers She became more and more beautiful The statue already did resemble no more to a statue But to a woman of human flesh fixed into immortality Whose beauty was equalized by no other mortal So much that he was in love with her. She was like a virgin whom we could believe to be alive An ivory goddess that could, without deluding whoever Inhale and heart beat, speak and smile, and perhaps even love. He had, creating with his nimble fingers this sublime being Reached the art to dissimulate art itself Pygmalion contemplated his work and there his heart ignited Of this phantom of woman ciseled into ivory He palpated with his nervous hands, the white surface of the ivory Believing he detect the living and warm flesh So the sex he had so much despised Had its revenge And no other lover enflammed for a virgin mortal Did know such a despair than that of Pygmalion. He lavished her kisses over kisses She refused to return them to him He caressed her hands, her face, the white flesh of her sides She remained insensitive He gently handled her bosoms She did not react to his caresses He took her into his arms She remained passive and cold like a doll, He penetrated her and even at the edge of the orgasm She did not answer her advances. During some time, he pretended to believe she was alive As do the children with their toys He dressed her with sumptuous clothings, Colorful and shot-coloured fabrics Translucent veils to stimulate his senses He thought that she was amused. He adorn her with invaluable jewels: Chains, collars of pearls that he hung to her neck, And that spread out over her naked chest Invaluable rings slipped into her toes as well as to her hands And fixed to her ears, pendentive sets with precious stones Sparkling shells, sonorus charms Naked, she was just more desirable He presented gifts to her Gifts that are pleasing to young girls Charming small birds, flowers, trinkets And amber tears, tears of the sisters of Phaeton, He deposited them to her feet Imagining that she thanked him with effusion The night came, he extended her over his couch He wrapped her of hot and soft heats and marrowy blankets As the young girls do with their dools. He made as if it was possible to make love to her Like we do of a consentent mistress. He overturn her on cushions with drawings of Orient, Gratified her with the name of beloved wife He lay himself along her body Imagining that she was of a sensitive flesh He spoke to her, he wrapped her with his arms Pretending to feel her flesh encrust itself into his flesh Then he cherished her gently imagining that she vibrated under his fingers Manipulating the papillae of her tiny bosoms, Moving along her solar plexus Down to the opening of her vagina subtly dug into ivory He left his impatient fingers there, let them penetrate this secret cave That he thought being filled with magmas of exotic savours He overlapped her timidly as if he feared that she defends herself Moulded himself to her body Imbricated himself in her flesh, intertwined her and settled slowly While his genitor member inflated under the excitment, He penetrated her gently and poured his seed In what he wanted to be her belly. But she remained motionless, insensitive to this rape And Pygmalion was dissatisfied. He was no more a child And he could not continue very long these futile games And he renounced to love this object without life That made his life so miserable Venus who passed by there noted this singular passion She was interested in this lover of a different species Who could at the same time love and deserve to be loved Was it to supplant this rival motionless into ivory? She decided to help this original lover In the island of Cyprus that day, it is the festival of Venus It is there that the goddess took refuge after having been born from scum. The Island is strewn with temples dedicated to the goddess of Love They offers to her, young males with white flesh and circoncised penis Immense crowds gathered to her temples And deceived lovers come there to tenderize her Pygmalion was there on that day Not knowing how to reveal to the goddess The secrecy that haunts him He requests her to make him meet a similar girl And who would be as beautiful and as perfect as the Goddess herself And who would let herself, love by him "To prove my love to you I offer to You, my own body to be loved by You Oh goddess of Love Whom I would like to Love if this was possible! " Venus did not like to be deluded But She was not insensitive to the emotions of men She was interested in this young man And spoke to him as one speaks oneself between mortals " You speak of a woman as beautiful as Me And that you could easily love But you must know well my beautiful mortal That gods cannot love And that they invented this strategy to better see the mortals suffer. " " We enjoy, we fornicate, we copulate, we make love But never do we love, that is the reason why we are Gods And infaillibles." "We copulate indifferently, From the gods, the goddesses of the Olympus or from the Manes of the Hades We copulate with the mortals, with men or women, With children, with little boys and little girls, As well as with angels and cherubins, Animals, beings almost-men, neither-animals, monsters also As well as inert beings" "And we make use of certain things to do it Anyhow, anywhere Whatever opening there is, provided that there is one By the mouth by the Anus or by the vagina or by some opening that is there Without never really see the difference, Never love, never be regular Never procreate because immortals Here are so many reasons we have to be Gods." Venus knows what this beautiful young man actually wishes, And she accomodates his prayer favorably " You see that all would be possible between us except Love, But how mortal, could you be satisfied of that? Go back then to your home, beautiful young man To love there, as only mortals do love!" Touched by these words of good forecasts Pygmalion returns to his home and to his love, This form which he had worked on and which had taken his whole heart. She was there, on her base, more beautiful than ever. He cherished her, then moved back surprised by the illusion Did he really feel a warm flesh under his hands? He deposed a lengtly kiss on her lips, And her lips softened under his own lips. He touched her arms, her face, her sides Their hardness disappeared like the wax melts under the sun. He touched her bosom and her heart beat there. It was the work of Venus. He had touched the heart of the Goddess. With an overflowing gratitude and joy, He took her lover in his arms. Reddening, she smiles and says to him: " Take me I am all yours I am Galatee, I am your daughter, I am your sister, Or whatever you want me to be I am your flesh, I am your blood, I am from you And perhaps am I yourself Love me as if I were different than all that Since you made me as beautiful as that Take me then and love me for all that!" And Pygmalion made love to her. And this time was the true one.



Marco Polo or the imaginary journey (Mythologies, translated august 2000) © 1999 Jean-Pierre Lapointe
Ovide, the metamorphosis, and the paintings of the great-masters, music by Yokubota.


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