today I present a novel almost unknown to the general public, and even those more knowledgeable. And yet this is probably one of the great texts of the second half of the twentieth century e, a text underground, known to some insiders, but when it was discovered, we almost regret not being able to discover again and relive the enchantment it offers.
In 1964, a book appears at Juillard anonymous Sorcerer's Apprentice. The plot of this story is simple: a 16 year old is set to board with a priest, in the heart of black Perigord. Between them, a relationship is established where the sadistic priest beats and rapes the young person relationship of love and hatred between the executioner and his young victim. The teen meets another boy, a bread delivery man, with whom he is in a relationship of total love, sexual. The book advance in stages towards an end paroxysmal, in this nature and the wilderness. This short summary gives little idea of this novel which combines the wild, brutal instincts and feelings, magic, truth latest naked men and especially the profound agreement of man with the world without intercessor and godless.
Some passages, gleaned over the book:
The encounter with the young driver:
A large shelter dug by the torrential waters, where cool invincibly we drew, we saw enter a dark corridor at the end of which a small distant source echoed through the stone. Fault by fault, burning matches that distance to the open air whenever extinguished quickly, lost the last gleam of day, we proceeded on the ground a little damp in the cave. I took her hand. I love you, "I said. Me too, I love you, "he said. We fell into the arms of one another. Never hug was not softer, more passionate than ours. He had a taste of love and be loved. Her lips, at first hesitant in the silence of the rocks, and opened like a flower delicious, desired my longest kisses.
summer we intoxicated. The child felt like me. Europe's harvest, caves and sod boys (...) threw me abominable thoughts in the blood.
with Love The young driver:
For some days our life was delicious. It was only me and the country did not suspect anything. In the cave I shaped like kneading clay, clay fresh and charming. What work in the full heat of summer! While they were returning a child I loved the hay in the ground. My voice with him, almost sung, his birth in my arms. At the end of a corridor I awakened to the knowledge of himself and his little lips heartfelt thanked me and stammered into the darkness of the cave where he gave free rein to his need of hugs and loving embrace. One day I rubbed a match to see him, he had undressed himself, his whole body was white. The clothes on the pegs, it was the most radiant appearance ever. The wellspring of life, the trampling of the cave floor, drunk, without a word, without haste, very far from the day he was dancing. I scratched one second match for the review that I put out almost immediately, praising the darkness that threw him into my arms.
We went out. We passed from darkness to the delicious hot air and the blinding mid-afternoon. I wanted never to return to that side of life and stay in the cave.
Celebrant:
whip in hand, he sat down beside me on another chair. My clothes pegs on, when I fought, I felt truly be devoured my flesh went in fragments, to be cooked, having done no good, he consumed me for supper. He laid the whip across his legs in the darkness I felt her hands against my bare flesh. It touched me as a woman caresses, broad, long under the thighs. For some time I became his servant, in the manner that I thought are the servants, and they do not perhaps, this that met my priest more and better than would have made a genuine servant; addition I needed to prepare our meals low, I had to clean the house, and some evenings, not only receive the whip, but still make a tender wife. This change of state appealed to me, not because of mistakes of my nature, nor a weaker sex, because I was virile and proud of it, but because I'm so acquire powers . Before I embraced me beat the size, he spoke in his ear, and I felt myself born in what was in me as a woman, in solitude, of course, I was sometimes my own wife, but without really believe, while in the arms of my priest I was glad to find someone at the cover of darkness, more or less roughly convinced of my dreams, and who, in turn, persuaded me . On this occasion I feel unless I give him to the discovery beneath the caresses of the second part of my being, my wife even for me. I kept thinking about having this whole life to the man at sixteen I had to see what a charming and vigorous servant of a priest would have done. None would be that one, smart in pleasure, sweet and strong, beaten, I pitied, I loved her in more; filled, I was amazed and I admired her strength she began to bear so much joy this dialogue with you was going to perfect happiness.
The priest again:
In this little room in the rectory, I was pleased to happiness is a perfect accessory with my priest that I guessed too occupied with his dreams. He loved me because of this complicity that united us without our fault we ever explain?
I went immediately to a total well-being and I made the loving and lovely wife. This camp covers disorder brought me back to the first nights of land, a state of nature, all the confusions paramount. Cons face jacket fur collar of my priest, as the coat of an animal, I was drunk with pleasure, I was hot. I liked this den. He caressed me with an accurate understanding of my flesh, bone-setters with a skill, without speaking to me, lest I make my drunkenness. His long hands seemed to know me well, from head to ankles, not a bone, not muscle it modelât with a subtlety that delighted me. He healed me from my solitude as it gives an sprain. What I am merely the most was his knowledge of I believe he wanted to please me infinitely divine, to hear me sing to her knees in her arms to believe he knew me from eternity.
A dive in Time:
The carved altar dating from the eighteenth century e ; Chair elegant pale blue and gold, with wood panels where we saw beautifully painted angels, XVII e ; roof and the nave of the fourteenth e . It was on this fragment of time that lay my love. I was convinced, in fact, have already lived in this country, my priest and child, I Review all ages, and myself with them.
An Encounter with the World:
Renewed there grew in abundance between cliffs dug shelters overrun with thick vegetation. The world was there before my eyes, the stars and leaves in the Great Time of the Night. The earth turned slowly into a clear sky streaked with pink clouds as sharp fronts boat. The rocks and woods lived in the moonlight their real life, far from men. And I also lived with them my real life, I was feeding my soul, I drink of happiness, I drank the strength of the World: that was the real, lasting, unforgettable. The unfathomable presence, living, charm of the area passed through the foliage. Eyes wide open, I had one wish: never back side of humans. In fact, I forgot them quickly, not a piece of my true self, my true character, which Participatory unreservedly to the eternal feast of the night sovereign. In this country
painted caves, the most approved my distant past. In my dealings with the tree that was in me came from the woman's first nights of the earth, that love leaves dated from the first night of the first Paradise, and I composed a curious character magician. Deep memory came back to me in a flood fun.
The work of writing:
So, this dark night springs a light. I tell myself that old phrase, the time of kings, crossed by rustic candor, and my madness woven skillfully compose an amazing fabric that deserves to survive. A small book, well and poorly written at once, like a rustic and beautiful stuff, that's what I could be capable. A kind of tapestry. He came to my mind the spinning of coarse wool mixed with fine silk. This idea led to a book like a curiously woven fabric I liked. My solitude once seemed interesting, my vices too. I saw clearly what I had in mind to do as soon as possible, I already had fun with tricks and finesse that I intend to cram this text would be done a thousand tricks and little weaknesses. I would put all my pleasure to live, love that burned my heart, my true character, and my soul, and the tireless river, and my priest, and the child.
I felt again the world, there beside me, as a reserve force intact delicious that I just had to draw from to write a book like no other. But what a strange book would it be done this way, by a boy like me who lived with a priest! A gallant little book, almost magical, like no one ever does consist of the kind.
comment as a warning
This novel may seem outrageous. This sadistic and masochistic relationship between a priest and a 16 year old, that love between the youth and a boy of 13 years may seem outrageous at the beginning of the century. In truth, the real scandal of this book is not there. It lies in the expression of this primitive sexuality, the middle a wilderness which is like a mirror that sensuality brings back the deep forces of life. By reading this book, we approach some truths about the strong link between man, nature, savagery, taken in the sense of a profound harmony between nature and man. The scandal of this book lies in this sexuality experienced as an inner adventure, almost an ascetic, a 16 year old. To read this, some might think we're in some incarnation of the New Age thinking or some offshoot of a follower of Paulo Coelho. No. This truth that we want to discover Augean, he himself has experienced. Just read Domme or occupation test to see that the Apprentice Wizard , like his other books, are a reflection of a very rich spiritual adventure, which departs from the beaten track, which explores new road, which goes to the limit of our consciousness, when she confronts the brutal existence of nature, our instincts. It shows the raw sexuality of a song: "everything said by the fierce determination to assert the view that man is scandalous that for humans, not for the woman, the woman is the enemy. I guessed the real mysteries, true joy. [...] The heat of summer, the cry of screaming insects swarming in the countryside exasperated my love for this child, the source himself, gave himself without a word.
A write and read these words, I do not know if I can share the power of this book and, for those who s 'book and there it drops, the driving force in the exploration of the dark forces and dark of our minds.
Some features of the author and the book
Augean Francis, born in Rochester in 1925, lived his youth in the Perigord. He is known for his novels Sahara: The Old Man and the Child and The Journey of the Dead . After a lifetime of misery He died at the Hospice of Montignac (Périgord) in 1971.
There is also a painter. These are some works from him, saved from the wreck of his life, which are reproduced here.
After two major books: The Old and Child, 1954 and The Journey of the Dead , 1958, this third book had trouble finding a publisher. It was Jacques Brenner who published at Juilliard, in the collection "Books of the seasons." He tells himself (or Francis Augean Spirits Theatre (p. 11): "This little masterpiece here and having been refused there, I had the chance to publish it in the collection of the Journal of the season I was running at Juillard. Augean would not sign his real name, but gave up the pseudonym Abdullah Chaamba that suited bad for a story set in the Perigord. The cover and title page presented the original does not give the name of the author. "
Chaamba Abdullah is the pseudonym of Francis Augier.
A personal note
I remain fascinated by the works Augean, especially the latter. After many years (too many years?), I read this little booklet for preparing this message. The magic remains intact. I discovered this book, and from there, the work of Francis Augean through a critique of BookWorld , with the release of a new edition in the collection "Les Cahiers Rouges" in 1995.
Then I gradually explored the various facets of the Augean world, ie his books. I think I read everything from him today. I'm still excited and hopefully make people want to discover the author, by the very large excerpts I reproduced.
Description Structure
Sorcerer's Apprentice
Paris, René Julliard, [1964], in-8 (180 x 114 mm), 121 - [5] pp.
The colophon is dated 6 January 1964 and the filing of a legal first quarter of 1964.
A bibliography of Francis Augean has just been published:
Bibliography of the writings of Francis Augean , established by Pierre E. Richard
Nimes, Editions Clam, 2010.
This brochure is now essential for those who want to unravel the tangled skein of successive editions of the first two books Augier.
Sorcerer's Apprentice has been reprinted several times. It is currently available by Grasset.
