“The Love of Europa” (Novel) Prologue

PROLOGUE

WHEN I TOUCHED HER BODY, I believed she was God.  In the curves of her form I found the birth of Man, the creation of the world, and the origin of all life.

She was Woman and I was Man.  Our bodies lay naked on the bed, panting like two beaten and worn animals.  Our bedroom resembled a battlefield.  Our passionate combat had lasted two days: forty-hours of straight love-making where we ceased only momentarily every so often to drink the necessary water and to eat, for our sexual exercise exhausted our fuel supplies.

Now, when the sunlight of another morning flooded the room to bake our bodies that were blown, expired and intertwined on the sheets, I thought to leave her to sleep so that I could begin again my work, which I had put off since she and I reunited.  Ah, happy I was to be at my desk this day!, for beautiful writing comes easily following a love-night with one’s Muse; and writing is the only way I have found to joyfully come down from sexual euphoria.

I kissed her earlobe and tasted the salt left over from our passion; and enjoying the taste infinitely, I kissed it once again, and then one time again; but this renewed affection of mine stirred the tired girl who began to purr with enjoyment, but she needed her sleep.  And so, I dragged myself from this most perfect of beings on this holiest of mornings and went to my desk at the windows overlooking the smoky souks and bazaars of Marrakech and set ink to paper.

What to write?  Our sensual battle had been so intense—so musical—that this morning commanded poetry instead of prose: verses to honor the divine female sleeping near me.  Thus, I drafted out the following lines…

 

The Wine of a Woman

Ô, the wine of a woman

from heaven is sent,

more perfect than all

that a man can invent.

Well, she came to my bed

and she begged me with sighs

not to tempt her towards passion

nor actions unwise.

I told her I’d spare her

and kissed her closed eyes,

then unbraided her body

of its clothing disguise

While our bodies were nude

bathed in candlelight fine

I devoured her mouth,

tender lips divine;

and I drank through her thighs

her feminine wine.

 

Ô, the wine of a woman

from heaven is sent,

more perfect than all

that a man can invent.

 

…And being very satisfied with what I had written, I decided I was ready now to move on to “heroic prose,” which is what I give you now in the following novel.  I hesitate on the title.  For now, I will call it The Love of Europa: The Story of a Wanderer and Wanderess.

Nocturne N°2 (Introduction)

I wrote Nocturne N°3 during one night that lasted seventeen hours—one of those long nights in winter when the sun barely rises in the day.  It is a nocturnal ode to my Muse who slept through all seventeen hours of the night, during which time I wrote franticly, passionately; for even the memory of cradling her in my arms is pure euphoria.  And all that I ask out of life is that it be constant and unending euphoria.  And so I write.  Now if you love this book unconditionally, then I will love you unconditionally.  If, however, you think this book needs a proper edit to be good, remember that I wrote it in a spree—one nocturnal, hypomanic spree—and stopped the moment my Muse woke up.  For loving her is another type of poetry.

                

     (Nocturne N°2 Coming soon)

ARABESQUE N°1 – BEGINNING OF NEW NOVEL (DRAFT) BY ROMAN PAYNE

BEGINNING OF NEW NOVEL (DRAFT) BY ROMAN PAYNE

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ARABESQUE N°1

 

Ô, Muse of Morocco, sing me your soliloquy, so that I may tell a tale of your land.  For ne’er a story so hallucinatory did I know before I stepped upon your sand.

I had wandered the earth for the latter half of my life[1].  Sometimes I lived like a king, money and pleasure in abundance; other times, I was without coin or bread: a pauper and poet living in a garret, although I was always inspired.  There were nights when I held a sweet woman in my arms, limbs woven together like two ancient trees entwined for centuries; other nights, I slept alone—perhaps on a bed, maybe on a floor.  I had bad dreams often: another wanderer on his path to nowhere.  But whenever I became discouraged, I would tell myself that I am living for literature, and there is nothing in this life holier.

The Fates decided I would be an adventurer in this life: a wanderer.  Not a traveler but a wanderer. “The word “travel” comes from the Old French word “travail” (or “travailler“), which means “to work, to labor; a suffering or painful effort, an arduous journey, a tormenting experience.” (“Travel,” thus, is “a painful and laborious journey”). Whereas “to wander” comes from the West Germanic word “wandran,” which simply means “to roam about.” There is no labor or torment in “wandering.” There is only “roaming.” Wandering is the activity of the child, the passion of the genius; it is the discovery of the self, the discovery of the outside world, and the learning of how the self is both “at one with” and “separate from” the outside world. These discoveries are as fundamental to the soul as “learning to survive” is fundamental to the body. These discoveries are essential to realizing what it means to be human. To wander is to be alive.

 

And so this the story of how, after leaving wandered everywhere, through the West, the Orient, and the islands in the deep Pacific; and after leaving Paris—my belovèd home that raised me from a child of 21 to a man of 36; and then how after living some years in Greece, Spain and and the Canary Islands, I came, at the handsome age of 39, to quit my life in Christendom and settle in the Muslim city of Marrakech in the North African country of Morocco—that exotic land where no human being can bide time without being forever marked by the experience.

Morocco is a “polytropolous” country, (meaning, it is a country where water falls towards the sky and reality is flipped on its head).  All of what one knows of life, growing up and reaching maturity in the Occident—in Europe or America—is meaningless in this hot, sandy black hole of space and time.  One feels here living in the 45th dimension.

 

END OF FIRST ARABASQUE, SECOND ARABESQUE COMING SOON

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[1] FORTY YEARS:  Payne began this book at age thirty-nine, in December, one month shy of his 40th birthday.  He began travelling at age 19.