Here are some rough and precious pages, written so freely, they will shock you with their elegance.

In her bedroom, filled with noise from the city and from her neighbors, a young woman brings herself to one intense orgasm after another in an attempt to rid herself of the white-hot love she feels inside. She reads, writes, and sleeps on an air mattress in an empty house her mother is letting her stay in for a while. As the days wax and wane, she patiently waits for beauty and light to bring her back to life.

The Sublime, a back-shelf novel and writing journal inspired by Violette Leduc’s intrepid prose, exposes the body as a conduit of grief, slow grief crammed into finite flesh, embracing cathartic pleasureHere are some rough and precious pages, written so freely, they will shock you with their elegance. In her bedroom, filled with noise from the city and from her neighbors, a young woman brings herself to one intense orgasm after another in an attempt to rid herself of the white-hot love she feels inside. She reads, writes, and sleeps on an air mattress in an empty house her mother is letting her stay in for a while. As the days wax and wane, she patiently waits for beauty and light to bring her back to life. The Sublime, a back-shelf novel and writing journal inspired by Violette Leduc’s intrepid prose, exposes the body as a conduit of grief, slow grief crammed into finite flesh, embracing cathartic pleasure. Excerpt: “Here I write. Crudely. About where I am climaxing. Without reserve and with ease. Without desire and without being desired. Without any desire to create desire anywhere other than my own body during the sublime moment of orgasm.”

Excerpt:

“Here I write. Crudely. About where I am climaxing. Without reserve and with ease. Without desire and without being desired. Without any desire to create desire anywhere other than my own body during the sublime moment of orgasm.”