SEXIS WRONG

On our honeymoon at Sitges and Barcelona, I let Gala go back
to Paris alone, so as to go and see my father, who tells me it
is unthinkable that I should marry a Russian woman. Despite
my denials, he believes Gala is a drug addict and has turned
me into a narcotics dealer, which alone in his eyes would explain
the unlikely sums of money I have been making.
He was to write me that he disowned me. Out of pain, I decided
to shave my head completely and, before leaving Cadaqués,
went and buried my hair on the beach with a batch of
sea-urchin shells fragrant of cunt.
I am on the highest hill overlooking Cadaqués and stare at
my village for a last farewell. With my bald scalp, I leave for
Paris, a picture of the anguish, pain, and sorrow that indicate
the passage to maturity and the landmarks of the Galactite
ordeals.
In Paris, all the paintings in the show have been sold and my
success is enormous. Gala has just finished transcribing my
notes that I plan to publish as La Femme Visible (The Visible
Woman). Buñuel wants us to start work without delay on the
scenario for L’Age d’Or, a new film that has just been commissioned
from him by the Vicomte de Noailles, who put up
a million francs, a fantastic budget for those days. A leaf of
my life is being turned; I am emerging from the
shadow to the light.
To live with Gala became an obsession to me.
To digest her, possess her, assimilate her, melt
into her. With my shaven skull and fiery eye I
looked exactly like a Grand Inquisitor, but one
consumed with love. Gala understood that we
had to flee the world so as to temper ourselves as a couple in
the crucible of life alone together.
A small hotel on the Riviera, at Carry-le-Rouet, took us in. We
rented two rooms. In one, my easel, my canvas of L’Homme
Invisible (The Invisible Man), inspired by the research of Archimboldo,
on whom I had meditated for so long, my books,
and my brushes; in the other, the bed. They brought our
meals up to us. We opened the door a crack only to let in the
valet or chambermaid.
I was methodically exploring Gala with the detailed care of
a physicist or archaeologist exalted to high pitch by delirious
love. I fixed in my memory the value of every grain of her
skin so as to apprehend the shadings of their consistency and
color; so as to find the right attentive caress for each. I could
have drawn up a map of her body with a perfect geography
of the zones of beauty and fineness of her fleshly coil and the
pleasures to be derived and evoked. I spent hours looking at
her breasts, their curve, the design of the nipples, the shadings
of pink to their tips, the detail of the bluish veinlets running
beneath their gossamer transparency; her back ravished
me with the delicacy of the joints, the strength of the rump
muscles, beauty and the beast conjoined. Her neck had pure
grace in its slimness; her hair, her intimate hairs, her odors intoxicated
me; her mouth, teeth, gums, tongue overpowered
me with a pleasure I had never even suspected. I became a
sex freak. I wallowed in it to the very paroxysm of cockcunt,
voraciously gobbling, frenzied in the unleashing of my finally
sated instincts.
Even today, from those passionate hours of our isolation in
sex, my memory retains the images of our orgiastic comingstogether—animal
but perfect and beautiful in their wildness.
We were like two monks of sex, at every hour of the day
celebrating the adoration of their god. [...]
I could have drawn up a map of her
body with a perfect geography of the
zones of beauty and fineness of her
fleshly coil and the pleasures to be
derived and evoked.
How Dalí’s Love For
Gala Expressed Itself
During these two months devoted to l’amour and the adoration
of Gala, I had gone down to the very sources of the pleasure
of living in the abyssal depths of being. It was a kind of
journey to the center of being I had made, going back to my
intra-uterine memories, to the very nourishment of the birthing
placenta, and in my wild mind seeing Gala’s cunt and my
mother’s belly as one. A philter sweeter than honey flowed
within me. Gala’s senses, Gala’s belly, Gala’s back exalted my
dreams, their shapes mixed together, merged, compounded
as the lines and rhythms of the waves of joy that rocked me
and carried me over an ocean of felicity. My paranoia knew
no bounds. My delirium rose to perfection, and Gala’s superintelligent
complicity allowed me to attain the omega point of
my inventions. All I had to do was touch the beauty mark on
Gala’s left earlobe to be carried away on the flying carpet of
my wild love.
This wonderful spot seemed to me to be the proton of my
beloved’s divine energy, the sun of her heart, the geometrical
locus of our passion for each other, the very point at which
any contradiction between our two beings ceased to be.
All I had to do was rub it with my finger to be flooded with
strength and faith in my own destiny. This divine beauty mark
to me was the proof of the definitive death of my brother
Salvador, his mystical tomb; stroking it, I was rubbing against
GALA’S DIVINE BEAUTY MARK 19