The spirit of Rabelais lives close by … I once signalled this passage to a colleague hinting at some parallels with Monique Wittig Les Guérillères.
The multinational Catholic army was in first-class shape. Those holy week preachers had the vigour of athletes. They wooed us little lesbians with their fatal frenzy: with snips of their scissors, tightenings of their nooses, hooks to the left eye, they made mincemeat of us. I was hamburger, tripes on the prie-dieu; there were only scraps of me left — bits of ears, nose, and mouth. With a final stroke of a plane over my skull, they scalped me of my imagination, just to hold it up to the redskins. The preachers leaked their homicidal gases. Was there any chance at all that one day the light would shine over this enormous ratatouille, this human meatball stew, this tender nursery of epileptic babies? One after another, we submitted to the outrage, the goosings, the aggression, the rape, the promise of resurrection.
Jovette Marchessault “A Lesbian Chronicle from Medieval Quebec” from Lesbian Triptych translated by Yvonne M. Klein (Toronto, Women’s Press, 1985)
And so for day 715