Gabrielle Wittkop’s The Necrophiliac isn’t the first book about a corpse fucker that I’ve read, but it does seem to be the most “lyrical”, whatever that means. Every review I’ve seen of this grim little novella praises the expressive nature of the sex scenes with festering cadavers. If I hadn’t googled the book after reading it, I would have guessed it was written by a weird 20 year old with a ponytail, but the author was actually a 50 year old French woman.
This book passes for literature because the language used isn’t what you’d expect from a piece of art about fucking the dead. Cannibal Corpse, one of my favourite bands since I was a teenager, have written many songs about necrophiliacs, and the lyrics to these songs would be my benchmark when it comes to this kind of thing.
|Cannibal Corpse – Necropedophile (1992)||Gabrielle Wittkop – The Necrophiliac (1972)|
|I begin the dead sex, licking her young, rotted orifice|
I cum in her cold cunt, shivering with ecstasy
For nine days straight I do the same
She becomes by dead, decayed child sex slave
Her neck I hack, cutting through the back
I use her mouth to eject
Here I cum, blood gushes from
Bleeding black blood
Her head disconnected
As I came, viciously I cut, through her jugular vein
She’s already dead, I masturbate with her severed head
My lubrication, her decomposition
|While I was sliding into that flesh so cold, |
so soft, so deliciously tight, found only in
the dead, the child abruptly opened an eye,
translucent like that of an octopus, and
with a terrifying gurgling, she threw up a
black stream of mysterious liquid on me.
Open in a Gorgon mask, her mouth didn’t
stop vomiting this juice until its odour
filled the room. All this rather spoiled my
pleasure. I’m accustomed to better
manners, for the dead are tidy.
Maybe some of the beauty of Wittkrop’s prose got lost in translation, but the effects of the above excerpts seem almost identical to me, even if the execution is little more “lyrical” in the latter. Sure, Wittkopp’s passage contains a synonym, an allusion to Greek mythology, and a touch of irony, but it’s still puerile gross-out material.
Don’t get me wrong here. The Necrophiliac was a short, moderately entertaining read. It was fine; it just makes me cringe to see people fawning over it because the author was European and threw in some poetic devices. It’s still a gross book for horrible sickos. I reckon I liked The Necrophiliac more than the other dirty French books I read a few years ago.