Transcribe
Translate
Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939
14
More information
digital collection
archival collection guide
transcription tips
THE GOURMET by Robert W. Lowndes In the wavering candle-light, Le Marc became a grotesque, fantastical figure, the embodiment of some artist's representation of Tsatheggua. His voice rebounded along the walls of this barbaric room as if rising up from an abysmal vault. "It is not hard to understand why the Church made gluttony one of the mortal sins. Look at me, Paul. What am I more than a gigantic stomach, an insatiable appetite?" He poured another glass of wine, downed it. "When one's organs become so encased in fat as mine, when one's being is so enwrapped in taste-sensations, what place can there be for a soul?" I smiled: Le Marc usually became metaphysical at this stage. "Worrying about your eternal soul again?" "You misapprehend me. Yet, it is a point. What meaning can life have for a man who can do nothing more than digest? I think they were right: man was meant for better things than this. "Look at me closely, Paul. See the caricature of humanity I have become. Is there anything like me in the world outside?" I could not help but think of some of those mediaeval drawings, showing lords with enormous paunches which had to be supported in little carts when they tried to walk. "Perhaps you are right-- but what of it" I said. "A few years more or less from the life-span-- does it make any great difference? You have lived as you wanted to live: what more can you ask?" He sank back into the depths of his chair. "No, I have not lived." There was no answer I could make. To refer to Clarissa now would be an unforgivable indelicacy. My eyes wandered to the great silver platter which contained remnants of the night's feast. One does not dine with Le Marc: one banquets. "What kind of meat is this?" I asked. "It is really different; of a tenderness and delicacy quite new to me-- a triumph for you, I think. And there you have it, my friend: you will always have the satisfaction of knowing that the name of Le Marc has become a symbol of gustatorial artistry. The whole world will know you some day and respect and admire you even as the small circle of your friends and acquaintances do now." He closed his eyes. "Clarissa!" "Once I was like you, Paul. Not merely young-- and surely I am not old, even now-- but alive. My soul is still the soul of a slender, beautiful young man, lithe and athletic. My dreams are the dreams of a strong young man whose blood throbs and whose sinews are not lost in fat. I want to dance with the dance of the seasons, to hurl the discus and throw the javelin, to hunt with the bow and arrow, to roam the night with one also young, lithe and-- alive. "You cannot imagine how I hungered for Clarissa, ever since I first saw her. But my gods are terrible gods, Paul. I have made them with my own hands; now they are my masters and they demand sacrifice." "Clarissa is gone, Le Marc. You must try to forget her."
Saving...
prev
next
THE GOURMET by Robert W. Lowndes In the wavering candle-light, Le Marc became a grotesque, fantastical figure, the embodiment of some artist's representation of Tsatheggua. His voice rebounded along the walls of this barbaric room as if rising up from an abysmal vault. "It is not hard to understand why the Church made gluttony one of the mortal sins. Look at me, Paul. What am I more than a gigantic stomach, an insatiable appetite?" He poured another glass of wine, downed it. "When one's organs become so encased in fat as mine, when one's being is so enwrapped in taste-sensations, what place can there be for a soul?" I smiled: Le Marc usually became metaphysical at this stage. "Worrying about your eternal soul again?" "You misapprehend me. Yet, it is a point. What meaning can life have for a man who can do nothing more than digest? I think they were right: man was meant for better things than this. "Look at me closely, Paul. See the caricature of humanity I have become. Is there anything like me in the world outside?" I could not help but think of some of those mediaeval drawings, showing lords with enormous paunches which had to be supported in little carts when they tried to walk. "Perhaps you are right-- but what of it" I said. "A few years more or less from the life-span-- does it make any great difference? You have lived as you wanted to live: what more can you ask?" He sank back into the depths of his chair. "No, I have not lived." There was no answer I could make. To refer to Clarissa now would be an unforgivable indelicacy. My eyes wandered to the great silver platter which contained remnants of the night's feast. One does not dine with Le Marc: one banquets. "What kind of meat is this?" I asked. "It is really different; of a tenderness and delicacy quite new to me-- a triumph for you, I think. And there you have it, my friend: you will always have the satisfaction of knowing that the name of Le Marc has become a symbol of gustatorial artistry. The whole world will know you some day and respect and admire you even as the small circle of your friends and acquaintances do now." He closed his eyes. "Clarissa!" "Once I was like you, Paul. Not merely young-- and surely I am not old, even now-- but alive. My soul is still the soul of a slender, beautiful young man, lithe and athletic. My dreams are the dreams of a strong young man whose blood throbs and whose sinews are not lost in fat. I want to dance with the dance of the seasons, to hurl the discus and throw the javelin, to hunt with the bow and arrow, to roam the night with one also young, lithe and-- alive. "You cannot imagine how I hungered for Clarissa, ever since I first saw her. But my gods are terrible gods, Paul. I have made them with my own hands; now they are my masters and they demand sacrifice." "Clarissa is gone, Le Marc. You must try to forget her."
Hevelin Fanzines
sidebar
