“You should punish the woman as well,” he said, sobbing.
The prison cell was no bigger than his body. They had handcuffed him and told him to remain on his knees. Until he confessed.
“Yes, it is love, but you don’t know it.”
By the end of the night he drank some milk, lapping like a cat. Filled himself up with the liquid as if sucking the breasts of an acquiescent animal. I am not free yet, he thought, using his last remaining strength. He yearned for freedom, to be able to sing and say, “I have been so much in love as to forget God.”
This image excited him; the voluptuous idea of being stronger than the divine through the power of the flesh. The stone walls were etched with screams and tears, scored by fingernails and forks. Even after they untied him during the day, they did not allow him any movement. Forbidden to straighten his body, he was forced to retain a position of submission. His limited space was his punishment, so their looks were saying. He didn’t mind and said to them, “I have to love, to conform with nature.”
His daring, as well as his tears, inspired laughter. “Confess!” shouted the guards. But they could not get anything out of him. Only the occasional smattering of words that no one could understand and that would eventually contaminate the world.
They strove to unfold the man’s secret text. To get at some truth. Yet no sooner did the fury and violence of his screams seem to show signs of his weakening than a look or a gesture or more incomprehensible words proved the contrary, that he would forever remain deaf to their interrogation. Food was turning into a solid