![]() “At least it isn’t more automatic writing,” Roger jeered. I opened it to read: Correspondence with Jacques Riviere. “Here, take a look at it yourself, Geoff.” Louis handed me the proof copy of a thin volume. Louis let out a dry guffaw of disbelief and Roger stuffed his hands in his pockets, squinting at Desnos’s window through the brambles. I sat up, shielding my eyes from the glare. “What’s taking those three? Should I knock at the door?” Justine’s heels clacked to the side of the car and a door slammed, rattling me. Roger fidgeted, scraping his shoes on the sidewalk. You see how clear my skin is.” I lifted my elbow to peer at him and saw his lined grin. I remembered again a stange look in those round brown eyes of his. Apparently, many women in their late twenties and some men experienced a rare and severe flare-up of acne. He told me there was little I could do but wait it out-my “age” was to blame. Bernard, that elderly doctor from my first day. It was acne of course, not bites, but it was acne that I’d never had before, appearing on clear skin overnight and spawning clusters of smaller blemishes like foothills, and healing very slowly. “Did something bite you during the night?” “Yipe! Geoffrey-” When Franz’s face had appeared in the mirror beside mine I hid my throbbing cheeks in a handful of suds. The morning after my disgusting dream about lampreys attaching themselves to my face-the dream that came the night of Artaud’s second stay at our house-I had looked in the washroom mirror to see a foreign planet dotted with angry red volcanoes. “Oh, leave him alone!” Justine snapped as I folded both arms around my head. ![]() “Let the sun hit your face, that will help your skin.” “No sleep again last night?” Louis’s voice asked, and I grumbled something in answer. The rising sun had warmed the automobile’s hood and I sat on it, then lay down on my side with my knees drawn up and an arm across my eyes. Letter from Jacques Riviere to Antonin Artaud Perhaps we should include a bit of your poetry, or your essay on Uccello? The effect would be a sort of epistolary novel which would be uncommon. An idea occurred to me that I long resisted but find very attractive… Why don’t we publish, instead of your poems, our correspondence? I have reread it, and your January 29 letter is particularly remarkable.
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