Death Kit by Susan Sontag Read Free Book Online

myself.” What he feels isn’t simply the languor of desire. It was a craving for rest, or for something even stronger. To which Diddy wished to surrender himself alone. He felt that tiredness on entering the tunnel, but had refused the feeling. Diddy grasps the girl. “Maybe I don’t want to make love. Maybe I just want to sleep.”
    â€œCome,” she said, and tugged at his hand.
    â€œMaybe I want to die.”
    â€œCome.”
    The girl extends her hand, feeling along the wall until she finds a door handle. “What’s this?”
    â€œThe washroom.”
    â€œIt’s empty, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes,” Diddy says.
    â€œShall we go in here?”
    Diddy follows the girl. Inside; the lavatory door locked. It was done. It was about to be done. In the lavatory, smelling of disinfectant and urine. A secret place, a hiding place: lowly yet secure. Diddy glances into the mirror above the metal sink. Then, expectantly, at the girl. “Take off your glasses,” he whispers. She removes them, holds them out for him to put somewhere safe; he lays them in the sink. Takes her in his arms, pressing her against his chest very tightly. Kisses her long and at the end brutally on the mouth.
    Diddy’s face (now) a few inches from the girl’s. Her eyes are a grainy imperfect blue, like milk glass. Diddy stares into them, searching for some modulation of expression. But although they move and blink, they have the monotony of ornaments. Could one infer a look, it would be a sad useless look. Innocent of utility, unable to achieve dominion by staring.
    Bleached eyes.
    Tiffany glass eyes.
    Eyes like teeth.
    Eyes like cooked white of egg.
    Eyes like a specimen of dried white of egg, prepared for the microscope.
    Eyes like tulip bulbs.
    Eyes like an electric drill.
    Prehensile eyes.
    Guilty eyes.
    Metal eyes.
    Meteor eyes.
    Lima-bean eyes.
    Paper eyes.
    Carrion eyes.
    Annealed eyes.
    Damp eyes.
    Wet eyes: the intricate vial of liquid.
    Crisp eyes, soggy eyes.
    Tattered eyes, elegant eyes.
    Stained eyes, clean eyes.
    Creased eyes, smooth eyes.
    Rotten eyes, fresh eyes.
    Sharp-focus eyes, soft-focus eyes.
    Concave eyes, convex eyes.
    Bespoke eyes, ready-to-wear eyes.
    Stiff eyes, flexible eyes.
    Univalve eyes, bivalve eyes.
    Single eyes, multiple eyes.
    Eyes with and without their outer shell.
    Empty eye sockets.
    The white hymen of the eyeball.
    â€œCan you see at all?” he asks softly. One never knows. An eye within an eye, perhaps. The fabled sight of the blind. She shakes her head. But as sight isn’t only in seeing, eyes aren’t only to see with; eyes, like mouths and hands, are organs of suffering. “Do you ever cry?” he whispers.
    The girl has unzipped the back of her dress. Diddy helps her pull it over her head.
    â€œWhy do my eyes interest you so much?” She stands (now) in her bra and half slip.
    Her aunt had called her Hester. “It’s not your eyes. It’s you, Hester,” says Diddy. Not exactly the truth. “Do you ever cry?”
    The girl pulls down her slip, extends it to Diddy to take from her. (Now) she’s wearing only the low-heeled suède shoes, her stockings held up by a tiny garter belt around her hips, and the bra. No underpants. Diddy astonished and excited by her sudden virtual nakedness. Is it so easy for her to be naked with a stranger because she can’t see herself being seen? Because exposure of her body to the eyes of a stranger seems no different than exposure of her face to all invisible strangers?
    Something cool and experienced about Hester’s undressing. Still, Diddy is almost afraid to acknowledge his erection. Undoubtedly, she’s not a virgin. But does the girl really know what she’s doing? In some way, she’s as opaque to him as he’s invisible to her. “ Do you cry?” Diddy persists, stalling.
    â€œAre you asking me if I’ve worn out my eyes weeping?”