That night I hear, for the first time, a new noise. The noise of a crowd. People shuffling their feet, coughing, saying things they do not really mean.
“You’re so talented! Such an inspiration,” says a shrill voice just outside the studio.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” says the Creator, as if overcome, all of a sudden, by a sense of humility. “Lucky to walk and talk,” she says, “just like the rest of us.”
“Walk? Talk? Lucky you,” grumbles a deep, melancholy voice from below.
Astonished, I turn my gaze to Adam. It could not have been him—now, could it? He seems so paralyzed, so restrained and so utterly focused on kneeling down in his particular shackled position as to have said absolutely nothing at all.
Meanwhile, she opens the door for the first guest. He offers numerous praises; which she accepts with a mix of visible pleasure and concealed distrust. I can tell she believes none of it—but all the same, praise, to her, is intoxicating. She can never get enough of it, which she will never admit, and which makes her angry with herself as well.
Now if you ask me, the guests are here for no other purpose than to pay tribute to me, as I rise over their heads in the flesh. Being in the nude, modesty has never been my strongest suit. Is it vanity, I ask you, to let them lay eyes on me, to delight in their cheers with such an open, shameless joy, and with no inhibitions whatsoever? Why should I refrain from basking in my own glory?
If you ask me, guilty pleasures are the only ones worth having.
A clay sculpture in Twisted
★ Love reading? Get this book ★