Articles liés à Choke
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In the summer of 1642 in Plymouth, Massachusetts, a teenage boy was accused of buggering a mare, a cow, two goats, five sheep, two calves, and a turkey. This is real history on the books. In accordance with the Biblical laws of Leviticus, after the boy confessed he was forced to watch each animal being slaughtered. Then he was killed and his body heaped with the dead animals and buried in an unmarked pit.
This was before there were sexaholic talk therapy meetings.
This teenager, writing his fourth step must've been a whole barnyard tell-all.
I ask, "Any questions?"
The fourth-graders just look at me. A girl in the second row says, "What's buggering?"
I say, ask your teacher.
Every half hour, I'm supposed to teach another herd of fourth-graders some shit nobody wants to learn, like how to start a fire. How to carve an apple-head doll. How to make ink out of black walnuts. As if this is going to get any of them into a good college.
Besides deforming the poor chickens, these fourth-graders, they all walk in here carrying some germ. It's no mystery why Denny's always wiping his nose and coughing. Head lice, pinworms, chlamydia, ringworm?for serious, these field trip kids are the pint-sized horsemen of the apocalypse.
Instead of useful Pilgrim crap, I tell them how their playground game ring-around-a-rosy is based on the bubonic plague of 1665. The Black Death gave people hard, swollen, black spots they called "plague roses," or buboes, surrounded by a pale ring. Hence "bubonic." Infected people were locked inside their houses to die. In six months, a hundred thousand people were buried in the huge mass graves.
The "pocket full of posies" was what people of London carried so they wouldn't smell the corpses.
To build a fire, all you do is pile up some sticks and dry grass. You strike a spark with a flint. You work the bellows. Don't think for a second this fire-starting routine makes their little eyes sparkle. Nobody's impressed by a spark. Kids crouch in the front row, huddling over their little video games. Kids yawn right in your face. All of them giggle and pinch, rolling their eyes at me in my breeches and dirty shirt.
Instead, I tell them how in 1672, the Black Plague hit Naples, Italy, killing some four hundred thousand people.
In 1711, in the Holy Roman Empire, the Black Plague killed five hundred thousand people. In 1781, millions died worldwide from the flu. In 1792, another plague killed eight hundred thousand people in Egypt. In 1793, mosquitoes spread yellow fever to Philadelphia, where it killed thousands.
One kid in the back whispers, "This is worse than the spinning wheel."
Other kids open their box lunches and look inside their sandwiches.
Outside the window, Denny's bent over in the stocks. This time just out of habit. The town council has announced he'll be banished right after lunch. The stocks are just where he feels most safe from himself.
Nothing's locked or even closed, but he's bent over with his hands and neck where they've been for months.
On their way here from the weaver's, one kid was poking a stick in Denny's nose and then trying to poke the stick in his mouth. Other kids rub his shaved head for luck.
Starting the fire only kills about fifteen minutes, so after that I'm supposed to show each herd of kids the big cooking pots and twig brooms and bed warmers and shit.
Children always look bigger in a room with a six-foot ceiling. A kid in the back says, "They gave us fucking egg salad again."
Here in the eighteenth century, I'm sitting beside the hearth of the big open fireplace equipped with the regular torture chamber relics, the big iron pothooks, the pokers, andirons, branding irons. My big fire blazing. This is a perfect moment to take the iron pincers out of the coals and pretend to study their pitted white-hot points. All the kids step back.
And I ask them, hey kids, can anybody here tell me how people in the eighteenth century used to abuse naked little boys to death.
This always gets their attention.
No hands go up.
Still studying the pincers, I say, "Anybody?"
Still no hands.
"For real," I say and start working the hot pincers open and shut. "Your teacher must've told you about how they used to kill little boys back then."
Their teacher's outside, waiting. How it worked was, a couple hours ago, while her class was carding wool, this teacher and me wasted some sperm in the smokehouse, and for sure she thought it would turn into something romantic, but hey. Me being face deep in her wonderful rubbery butt, it's amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you.
Ten times out of ten, a guy means I love this.
You wear a foofy linen shirt, a cravat, and some breeches, and the whole world wants to sit on your face. The two of you sharing ends of your fat hot slider, you could be on the cover of some paperback bodice-ripper. I tell her, "Oh, baby, cleave thy flesh unto mine. Oh yeah, cleave for me, baby."
Eighteenth-century dirty talk.
Their teacher, her name's Amanda or Allison or Amy. Some name with a vowel in it.
Just keep asking yourself: "What would Jesus not do?"
Now in front of her class, with my hands good and black, I stick the pincers back into the fire, then wiggle two of my black fingers at the kids, international sign language for come closer.
The kids in the back push the ones in the front. The ones in the front look around, and one kid calls out, "Miss Lacey?"
A shadow in the window means Miss Lacey's watching, but the minute I look at her she ducks out of sight.
I motion to the kids, closer. The old rhyme about Georgie Porgie, I tell them, is really about England's King George the Fourth, who could just never get enough.
"Enough what?" a kid says.
And I say, "Ask your teacher."
Miss Lacey continues to lurk.
I say, "You like the fire I got here?" and nod at the flames. "Well, people need to clean the chimney all the time, only the chimneys are really small inside and they run all over the place, so people used to force little boys to climb up in them and scrape the insides."
And since this was such a tight place, I tell them, the boys would get stuck if they wore any clothes.
"So just like Santa Claus . . ." I say, "they climbed up the chimney . . ." I say, and lift a hot poker from the fire, "naked."
I spit on the red end of the poker and the spit sizzles, loud, in the quiet room.
"And you know how they died?" I say. "Anybody?"
No hands go up.
I say, "You know what a scrotum is?"
Nobody says yes or even nods, so I tell them, "Ask Miss Lacey."
Our special morning in the smokehouse, Miss Lacey was bobbing on my dog with a good mouthful of spit. Then we were sucking tongues, sweating hard and trading drool, and she pulled back for a good look at me. In the dim smoky light, those big fake plastic hams were hanging all around us. She's just swamped and riding my hand, hard, and breathing between each word. She wipes her mouth and asks me if I have any protection.
"It's cool," I tell her. "It's 1734, remember? Fifty percent of all children died at birth."
She puffs a limp strand of hair off her face and says, "That's not what I mean."
I lick her right up the middle of her chest, up her throat, and then stretch my mouth around her ear. Still jacking her with my swamped fingers, I say, "So, you have any evil afflictions I should know about?"
She's pulling me apart behind and wets a finger in her mouth, and says, "I believe in protecting myself."
And I go, "That's cool."
I say, "I could get canned for this," and roll a rubber down my dog.
She worms her wet finger up my pucker and slaps my ass with her other hand and says, "How do you think I feel?"
To keep from triggering, I'm thinking of dead rats and rotten cabbage and pit toilets, and I say, "What I mean is, latex won't be invented for another century."
With the poker, I point at the fourth-graders, and I say, "These little boys used to come out of the chimneys covered with the black soot. And the soot used to grind into their hands and knees and elbows and nobody had soap so they stayed black all the time."
This was their whole lives back then. Every day, somebody forced them up a chimney and they spent all day crawling along in the darkness with the soot getting in their mouths and noses and they never went to school and they didn't have television or video games or mango-papaya juice boxes, and they didn't have music or remote-controlled anything or shoes and every day was the same.
"These little boys," I say and wave the poker across the crowd of kids, "these were little boys just like you. They were exactly like you."
My eyes go from each kid to each kid, touching all their eyes for a moment.
"And one day, each little boy would wake up with a sore place on his private parts. And these sore places didn't heal. And then they metastasized and followed the seminal vesicles up into the abdomen of each little boy, and by then," I say, "it was too late."
Here's the flotsam and jetsam of my med school education.
And I tell how sometimes they tried to save the little boy by cutting off his scrotum, but this was before hospitals and drugs. In the eighteenth century, they still called these kind of tumors "soot warts."
"And those soot warts," I tell the kids, "were the first form of cancer ever invented."
Then I ask, does anybody know why they call it c...
Amazon.fr :
This was before there were sexaholic talk therapy meetings.
This teenager, writing his fourth step must've been a whole barnyard tell-all.
I ask, "Any questions?"
The fourth-graders just look at me. A girl in the second row says, "What's buggering?"
I say, ask your teacher.
Every half hour, I'm supposed to teach another herd of fourth-graders some shit nobody wants to learn, like how to start a fire. How to carve an apple-head doll. How to make ink out of black walnuts. As if this is going to get any of them into a good college.
Besides deforming the poor chickens, these fourth-graders, they all walk in here carrying some germ. It's no mystery why Denny's always wiping his nose and coughing. Head lice, pinworms, chlamydia, ringworm?for serious, these field trip kids are the pint-sized horsemen of the apocalypse.
Instead of useful Pilgrim crap, I tell them how their playground game ring-around-a-rosy is based on the bubonic plague of 1665. The Black Death gave people hard, swollen, black spots they called "plague roses," or buboes, surrounded by a pale ring. Hence "bubonic." Infected people were locked inside their houses to die. In six months, a hundred thousand people were buried in the huge mass graves.
The "pocket full of posies" was what people of London carried so they wouldn't smell the corpses.
To build a fire, all you do is pile up some sticks and dry grass. You strike a spark with a flint. You work the bellows. Don't think for a second this fire-starting routine makes their little eyes sparkle. Nobody's impressed by a spark. Kids crouch in the front row, huddling over their little video games. Kids yawn right in your face. All of them giggle and pinch, rolling their eyes at me in my breeches and dirty shirt.
Instead, I tell them how in 1672, the Black Plague hit Naples, Italy, killing some four hundred thousand people.
In 1711, in the Holy Roman Empire, the Black Plague killed five hundred thousand people. In 1781, millions died worldwide from the flu. In 1792, another plague killed eight hundred thousand people in Egypt. In 1793, mosquitoes spread yellow fever to Philadelphia, where it killed thousands.
One kid in the back whispers, "This is worse than the spinning wheel."
Other kids open their box lunches and look inside their sandwiches.
Outside the window, Denny's bent over in the stocks. This time just out of habit. The town council has announced he'll be banished right after lunch. The stocks are just where he feels most safe from himself.
Nothing's locked or even closed, but he's bent over with his hands and neck where they've been for months.
On their way here from the weaver's, one kid was poking a stick in Denny's nose and then trying to poke the stick in his mouth. Other kids rub his shaved head for luck.
Starting the fire only kills about fifteen minutes, so after that I'm supposed to show each herd of kids the big cooking pots and twig brooms and bed warmers and shit.
Children always look bigger in a room with a six-foot ceiling. A kid in the back says, "They gave us fucking egg salad again."
Here in the eighteenth century, I'm sitting beside the hearth of the big open fireplace equipped with the regular torture chamber relics, the big iron pothooks, the pokers, andirons, branding irons. My big fire blazing. This is a perfect moment to take the iron pincers out of the coals and pretend to study their pitted white-hot points. All the kids step back.
And I ask them, hey kids, can anybody here tell me how people in the eighteenth century used to abuse naked little boys to death.
This always gets their attention.
No hands go up.
Still studying the pincers, I say, "Anybody?"
Still no hands.
"For real," I say and start working the hot pincers open and shut. "Your teacher must've told you about how they used to kill little boys back then."
Their teacher's outside, waiting. How it worked was, a couple hours ago, while her class was carding wool, this teacher and me wasted some sperm in the smokehouse, and for sure she thought it would turn into something romantic, but hey. Me being face deep in her wonderful rubbery butt, it's amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you.
Ten times out of ten, a guy means I love this.
You wear a foofy linen shirt, a cravat, and some breeches, and the whole world wants to sit on your face. The two of you sharing ends of your fat hot slider, you could be on the cover of some paperback bodice-ripper. I tell her, "Oh, baby, cleave thy flesh unto mine. Oh yeah, cleave for me, baby."
Eighteenth-century dirty talk.
Their teacher, her name's Amanda or Allison or Amy. Some name with a vowel in it.
Just keep asking yourself: "What would Jesus not do?"
Now in front of her class, with my hands good and black, I stick the pincers back into the fire, then wiggle two of my black fingers at the kids, international sign language for come closer.
The kids in the back push the ones in the front. The ones in the front look around, and one kid calls out, "Miss Lacey?"
A shadow in the window means Miss Lacey's watching, but the minute I look at her she ducks out of sight.
I motion to the kids, closer. The old rhyme about Georgie Porgie, I tell them, is really about England's King George the Fourth, who could just never get enough.
"Enough what?" a kid says.
And I say, "Ask your teacher."
Miss Lacey continues to lurk.
I say, "You like the fire I got here?" and nod at the flames. "Well, people need to clean the chimney all the time, only the chimneys are really small inside and they run all over the place, so people used to force little boys to climb up in them and scrape the insides."
And since this was such a tight place, I tell them, the boys would get stuck if they wore any clothes.
"So just like Santa Claus . . ." I say, "they climbed up the chimney . . ." I say, and lift a hot poker from the fire, "naked."
I spit on the red end of the poker and the spit sizzles, loud, in the quiet room.
"And you know how they died?" I say. "Anybody?"
No hands go up.
I say, "You know what a scrotum is?"
Nobody says yes or even nods, so I tell them, "Ask Miss Lacey."
Our special morning in the smokehouse, Miss Lacey was bobbing on my dog with a good mouthful of spit. Then we were sucking tongues, sweating hard and trading drool, and she pulled back for a good look at me. In the dim smoky light, those big fake plastic hams were hanging all around us. She's just swamped and riding my hand, hard, and breathing between each word. She wipes her mouth and asks me if I have any protection.
"It's cool," I tell her. "It's 1734, remember? Fifty percent of all children died at birth."
She puffs a limp strand of hair off her face and says, "That's not what I mean."
I lick her right up the middle of her chest, up her throat, and then stretch my mouth around her ear. Still jacking her with my swamped fingers, I say, "So, you have any evil afflictions I should know about?"
She's pulling me apart behind and wets a finger in her mouth, and says, "I believe in protecting myself."
And I go, "That's cool."
I say, "I could get canned for this," and roll a rubber down my dog.
She worms her wet finger up my pucker and slaps my ass with her other hand and says, "How do you think I feel?"
To keep from triggering, I'm thinking of dead rats and rotten cabbage and pit toilets, and I say, "What I mean is, latex won't be invented for another century."
With the poker, I point at the fourth-graders, and I say, "These little boys used to come out of the chimneys covered with the black soot. And the soot used to grind into their hands and knees and elbows and nobody had soap so they stayed black all the time."
This was their whole lives back then. Every day, somebody forced them up a chimney and they spent all day crawling along in the darkness with the soot getting in their mouths and noses and they never went to school and they didn't have television or video games or mango-papaya juice boxes, and they didn't have music or remote-controlled anything or shoes and every day was the same.
"These little boys," I say and wave the poker across the crowd of kids, "these were little boys just like you. They were exactly like you."
My eyes go from each kid to each kid, touching all their eyes for a moment.
"And one day, each little boy would wake up with a sore place on his private parts. And these sore places didn't heal. And then they metastasized and followed the seminal vesicles up into the abdomen of each little boy, and by then," I say, "it was too late."
Here's the flotsam and jetsam of my med school education.
And I tell how sometimes they tried to save the little boy by cutting off his scrotum, but this was before hospitals and drugs. In the eighteenth century, they still called these kind of tumors "soot warts."
"And those soot warts," I tell the kids, "were the first form of cancer ever invented."
Then I ask, does anybody know why they call it c...
"On peut dire n'importe quoi ici. Lavements, orgies, animaux, confessez jusqu'à la dernière obscénité, et personne n'est jamais surpris." Ainsi parle Victor Mancini, le héros de Choke, le nouveau roman de Chuck Palahniuk, auteur culte de Fight Club. Son héros est un sexoolique, un dépendant absolu, "un camé du sexe". Afin de payer l'hospitalisation et les soins d'une mère folle qui ne le reconnaît plus, il s'étouffe régulièrement en public jusqu'à ce qu'une bonne âme pratique sur lui une trachéotomie. Lui expurge, vomit tout et permet aux gens qui l'ont sauvé de se croire l'espace d'un instant des héros.
Le lectorat trop délicat, fragile de l'estomac, sera dispensé de lecture. Ceux qui ont les viscères bien attachés seront peut-être ravis. Au contact de cette littérature américaine postmoderne, on vit une explosion créatrice qui jouit dans la surenchère du nihilisme et de la provocation. Immorale à souhait et parfaitement désespérée. À ce jeu-là, Choke remporte la palme. Punk radicalisé avec un soupçon de doute existentiel (merci Kierkegaard), Chuck Palahniuk, nouveau fer de lance du roman US avec Bret Easton Ellis et le regretté John Kennedy Toole, fait passer Henry Miller pour un boy-scout puritain. "Ce que nous vivons maintenant, c'est la Dés-Illumination", professe l'un des personnages. Brrrr, ça fait froid dans le dos. --Denis Gombert
Le lectorat trop délicat, fragile de l'estomac, sera dispensé de lecture. Ceux qui ont les viscères bien attachés seront peut-être ravis. Au contact de cette littérature américaine postmoderne, on vit une explosion créatrice qui jouit dans la surenchère du nihilisme et de la provocation. Immorale à souhait et parfaitement désespérée. À ce jeu-là, Choke remporte la palme. Punk radicalisé avec un soupçon de doute existentiel (merci Kierkegaard), Chuck Palahniuk, nouveau fer de lance du roman US avec Bret Easton Ellis et le regretté John Kennedy Toole, fait passer Henry Miller pour un boy-scout puritain. "Ce que nous vivons maintenant, c'est la Dés-Illumination", professe l'un des personnages. Brrrr, ça fait froid dans le dos. --Denis Gombert
Les informations fournies dans la section « A propos du livre » peuvent faire référence à une autre édition de ce titre.
- ÉditeurFOLIO POLICIER
- Date d'édition2005
- ISBN 10 207030552X
- ISBN 13 9782070305520
- ReliurePoche
- Nombre de pages384
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Choke (Folio Policier) (French Edition) [FRENCH LANGUAGE - Soft Cover ]
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Gallimard Education
(2005)
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ISBN 13 : 9782070305520
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