Character: Machiavelli: narcissist, evil genius and brilliant political theorist. In his following monologue he shows his brilliance as a philosophical theorist. It is a monologue in which includes open papers: he starts with a letter-introduction addressed to himself; he writes using his book, the "Prince", but instead of the Prince as "Your Magnificence" is himself, Machiavelli. He knows he is genius, he doesn't try to prove it. In the monologue he expresses himself using his talent as a writer, a poet. The monologue is a diary collection of open papers, in which Machiavelli wrote his observation about his spiritual trip to Mao II, Red Azalea, Perfume, God Dies by the Nile, Tropic of Cancer, Incest, Lolita, The Double Flame, The Stranger and No Exit.

~~~

(New York, downtown, October, 2000.)

... I'd like, in presenting these texts, to confess at once: I am not a critic or a prose writer. I am a genius! But now I am just a man who sees. Psychological analysis does nothing for me, my powers of observation are largely absent, and every attempt at description bores me to death. I have no way to exhaust a subject except to live it... writing. Which means I dive in a long way before clarifying what I want to say, I let myself drift, here and there, preferring the darkest corners, trying to see or, if not, at least to touch and recognize.

~~~

(New York, 20th century, a journey from Yankee Stadium to Beirut)

It seems difficult but is simple. You throw the cards and turn them. A plethora of mauve noes and red yeses appears, silent alwayses, sonorous nevers, all of them well-placed in geometric designs directly from your soul... Strange. What makes us play a different role in each act of the same play? Why do we mean to be tried over and over?

We exchange futures as lighthouses do their beams, so that, in a final refraction, all our ages resound their "present" at once, just as all our elements -- liquid and solid, volatile and crystalline, dark and highly luminous -- add up to one. If not one were passes to another. So one arrives, encircling every lifeform in the same result as that of the pedestrian and the flyer, as I, Bill Gray a famous writer, and my brilliant assistant Scott, relative to the different speed of bodies -- although the futurists had overlooked the fact that everything does flee, but always in one place, like the stars... And after all these thoughts, I am still trying to avoid failure.

~~~

(China, 1957 -- America, 1984)

I woke up in the dark of a moon steamed against glass, black as if glazed with ebony.

What happened to me? Who am I? I hate her! I hate heeerrr!!! I hate the richness of the surrounding "red" all over me; in me, out of me. Fine colorful silks cover juicy essential bodies; bodies which are loved and in love; love o love, how you depart from eros! You let it reach its utter explosion and exhaust, while you preserve yourself and rise like oil above water to keep the flame of an endless day. O love can you hear me? O if I could erase and write people as I want them...

What speech! Here, the retarded other me, in me, tries to combine intelligence and void, stupidity and the improbable. Hey! Wake up! I had enough of your meaningless paralirism!

What I am trying to say , or to confess is my love to her. In my dreams she appears like a Greek Goddess. My passion for her makes me feel like Chinese Saphfo, the lesbian poet. In my lips come the following words: I saw her everywhere. Holding a glass and staring into space. Lying down listening to opera. Walking the streets in shiny fine silk kimonos. She is wearing white powder in her face which makes her look dead but in my eyes she is beautiful. She is snob, she walks looking the sky. She is powerful. Her power wakes up my hedonistic emotions. I want to make love to her. No, I am lying. I want to fuck you... I want to tear your guts apart...

If you talk to her she doesn't hear at all. As if something is happening -- she alone hears it and is frightened. She holds your hand tight, tears, but is not there. I never touched her and I never took from her anything.

~~~

(France, 18th century)

Besides, from a different perspective, if something of the old endures, it is never the object itself; it is the undecaying meaning, as we first knew it, entering our minds. Sure no one builds chapels nowadays, light boats are made of plastic, perfumes are made of chemical elements, dovecots nonexistent. We still have the deserted wind across the whitewashed sill, the sound of a salty rope governing a sail intimate with wind's cheek, the place once held by the solitery cloisters of the birds.

You must discard today's old to gain the past, the eternally past. You have always be like buds, way beyond winter.

A well-limned euphony breathes, laying a mistral atop the earthen tetragram I open my soul like a huge window upon Euvoia's cove each morning. Fair weather! Almost distilled, half of the globe can be discerned from here. You let go. What wily wind tickles the jasmine's little ears in our ignorance; what stalks and reeds you see, chasing each other in the sudden drizzle, frightened as little birds! scared as elapsed to murderer's hands naked virgins! Every fluid from girl's body, every cicada leap is nothing but a new day here, each player of the evergreen surf a Greek-speaking cricket, leafing through July's book of days. Go on, you bluets, cam panels, bee-bells and bittersweets, pepper geraniums, myth nymphs! A sharper-scented day grows from old, a thundering command from Zeus's larynx.

Who are we then? What do we seek? What does fate write on our country's palm? No, no. The only writ is wealthiest the least, inscribed in Greek capitals on prows of ships. Earth and water, that is. In Greek, boulder and sea.

O! sweet dawn humanity! Enduring morning of your soul. where thr orange never turns to lead but, even in the dark, gold glows the Parisian light. Where can the people in this place find roof, if not in their own uniqueness? The uniqueness of an evil genius -- like me and myself Grenouille -- the uniqueness of the innocent virgins -- my victims, as any credulous Prince, or Grenouille's victims, as any fresh young girl -- and most importantly, the uniqueness of the diachronic character of ourselves (which we try to define and hide) which, for thousands of years, have not chanced owner.

~~~

(Nile, 19...)

After he raped unconsciously the girls; he sat on a filthy crafted chair in his office and observing the naked girls, whose bodies are still making orgasm's spasms; He grab a pen and start to write his syllogism:

...There were periods we savored as the mad do their freedom. my desk -- of the obscure geometry -- was practically transformed to a consulate of fixed ideas and overblown schemas. Daughters of Nile with glassy epaulets and aunts with gold disks and an ordained place in the otherwise summery calendar of festivities; riverboats, prostrate in the scrub oak or barely jutting from their lair, portions of Nile as no one has yet seen them, wave-like foals, channels of precious foam. I speak of something that both is and is not. The timely and singular you find on a girl's first page, which vanishes before you explain it.

So worn are we by society and social lies that even the essential truth, directly expressed, seems a paradox.

For the duration of a jerk off, which is our life and where we savor (and self-destruct as also in love) our creative efforts, and anywhere else as well, the only light still shining, though trodden heavily by time, is beauty. That infinitesimal wink in which we tasted beauty and incarnated it once and for all in our private eternity.

O Zakeya, you will never understand what rape means to me and how I feel tearing apart a girls genitalia. Your ignorant innocent mind blocks you off seeing my perverted empty powerful soul.

~~~

(Back to Paris in 1934.)

... And at once behind his hand I saw -- it appeared

a mob of many men speechless from fear

who cried and ran ran and squealed

"There comes Avathon there comes the Releaser."

I felt great turbulence and anger

mastered me. But he himself went on:

"Let who cheated cheat still. And the filthy

be filthier. And the just

more just let be." And because I sighed

with endless serenity he stretched his hand

slowly on my face

and it was sweet as honey but it embittered my gut...

I am not a religious man but I, Machiavelli the evil, believe in "something" more powerful than a human being. I believe that we are create our own God, based on our observation of life.

In the above part of "The Apocalypse", my Greek confession, I depict a man who tries to find his God. I am desperate, lost in my jungle "world".

Suddenly I feel my God, who tells me exactly what I feel about life and how the people in this should be. The basic rule is that you get what you deserve. I named my God as Avathon and Releaser. Avathon in Greek means not walker, but here means the one who sets the rules, who drafts the scheme of life. The other name Releaser means the one, who let you free, the one who rescues you.

~~~

(Still in Paris in 1932-1934.)

"Today I was walking loaded with over fullness.

Abandoned are the eyes...

One among the thousand murderers, I too take innocent, the weak. I wrap the ancient garment round me and descend the stone steps again, calling and exorcising.

Abandoned are the eyes you call...

Eons now over the blue volcanoes. far in the body and far in the soil I stand on, I went to find out who I am. Rich in small joys and unexpected meetings, look at me: incapable of learning what I give, what I am given, and still injustice has the greater part

Gold wind of life...

(Somewhere in Europe in 1950s.)

"...Suspended on the brink of that voluptuous abyss ( a nicety of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the arts) I kept repeating chance words after her -- barmen, alarmin', my charmin', my carmen', ahmen, ahahamen -- as one talking and laughing in his sleep while my happy hand crept up her sunny leg as far as the shadow of decency allowed.

Hmm! My mind flies, my muscle is now hard; The body knows, where to go. Oh my beautiful Archangel, blisses like fruit in a pan!

Lets live the moment, help me make this night famous!

...by the terraces, near the musical complaint of your hand's curve. Near your transparent breast, the uncovered forests full of violets and vegetables and open palms of moon, far as the sea, the sea you caress, the sea that takes and leaves me leaving in a thousand shells.

Visible and beautiful Lolita, i taste your good moment! i say that you communicate so well with people you raise them to the dimension of your heart so none again can worship what belongs to him, what stirs like a tear at the root of every grass, the crown of each reached branch. I say that you communicate so well with the spring of things that your fingers match their fate.

Visible and beautiful Lolita by your side I am whole!

(Somewhere in Mexico City in 1993.)

" Friendship is often compared to love. Sometimes as complementary passions, sometimes, more frequently, as opposites. If the carnal, physical element is omitted, the resemblance between love and friendship is obvious.

...Love is born of a sudden infatuation; friendship from frequent contact and prolonged interaction. Love is instantaneous; friendship takes time.

A language like Greek where agape is one thing and eros another; desire one thing and longing-with-a-beating-heart another; bitterness one thing and marasmus another; guts one, entrails something else. In clear tones I mean which are -- alas -- grasped less and less by those who more and more are distanced from the meaning of a celestial body whose light is our assimilated labor, just as it doesn't cease revolving every day, all brilliance, to reward us.

Dear friend, whether we want to or not, we are the matter as well as the instrument of a perpetual exchange between what sustains us and what we give it to sustain us: the black we give to receive white, the mortal, everlasting.

And we're indebted to some bright duration for our potential joy.

(Somewhere in France in 1944.)

Who? Who are the people, you can hate? Who are they, that makes you a beast?

IT IS YOU IDIOT!

Here I am Machiavelli the Great, looking my self in the mirror. I am scared of what I see.

Exit! Exit! Where is the exit!...

There is NO EXIT, unless you want to.

The biggest question No Exit seems to leave unanswered is whether the misery we cause one another is meant to be or if it is simply chance and the decisions we make that cause that misery. Furthermore, is there anything we can do about it, or is our nature so constructed so that we have no choice in the matter?

Inez my 'female me', you said "One always dies too soon -- or too late."

Yes! and yet one's whole life is complete at that moment, with a line drawn neatly under it, ready for the summing up. You are -- I am -- your life, and nothing else. We have a moment, everything we need to be happy, yet we insist on searching for things that makes us miserable.

There is an Exit, darling! It is you, facing your self in the mirror! It is you, seeing your self as hell.

"Would you like my mask?

Would you like my mirror?

Cries the man in the shadowing hood

You can look at yourself

You can look at each other

You can look at the face of your god".

(Loreena McKennitt, Marrakesh night market, Quinlan Road ltd.)

(Somewhere in 1946.)

"She wanted to know if I loved her," Meursault says.

A person like me, is never as large or small as the meanings he grasps, from the Angel to the Demon. It's like the space left when these two rival forces self-destruct. If it pleases me to refer to a tree's nobility or turn answers to riddles, it's for this: to understudy the child I was and have again on hand, entirely for free, that endless visibility, the mightiest, most enduring of revolutions.

I was looking at what fit the large square window: some scorched land, a stripe of deep blue surf. Later, in my sleep, three in the afternoon, I saw Hermes descending from the sky, leg flexed, holding a small girl in his arms, head upside down, her hair poured in the wind.

Do I love? For a man unwittingly drawn into a senseless murder, for a man whom nakedness faced the absurd, for a man like me, what "love" means;

Yes, I probably do, somehow.

~~~

... And here I am thinking and writing my observetations. We are trying to find humanism inside of us. As well known inhuman I Machiavelli, the evil, I dare to say :

"Who charges solitude still has humans inside him."