Ma mère

Pierre, the Son:
[R?a is mounting on him] I'm your horse?

Loulou:
This goes to your mother. The Mediterranean b*tch. [Pierre slaps Loulou]

Pierre, the Son:
My mother.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
My son. My beautiful son. My grown-up son.

[last lines]

Pierre, the Son:
Please, don't die, mom!

R?a:
My tongue will dig around down there. It will clean your adorable shitty hole.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
What did you tell him?

R?a:
I can't wait to eat his filthy ass.

The Father:
I would have preferred doing otherwise. Or living otherwise. But I let myself get overcome by things. Things foreign to me. They settled in. Little by little. They destroyed my hope. They began to rule. You can understand that when I was young this wasn't the life I dreamed of. I didn't dream of this Iife because I wasn't this person.I was full of joy and energy. You didn't know me, Pierre. As soon as you were born, my youth fell apart. I have the impression that my life today doesn't correspond to my true nature. I have the impression I haven't changed. Still full of joy and energy. But unable to prove it to others. Alone in my joy and energy.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
The Turks are wonderful. Not like what people say. They're good. Nothing like the Spanish. They're the empty core of life. Living next to them is already stooping low.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
Your father is dead. I won't lie to you anymore. You must admit that I'm worse than him. I don't deserve your respect. What do you think I've been doing every afternoon all these years? Why were you raised by your grandmother? What did you imagine? Look at me, Pierre! I'm a b*tch. A slut. No one respects me. Your father knew. He allowed it. If you really love me, then admit that I'm disgusting. I want you to love me for that. For the shame I inspire in you.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
Your father was weak like you. Maybe now you know desire reduces us to weakness.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
Loving your mother isn't everything... nor being intelligent. Nor being handsome. Nor being frighteningly serious. Where will that take you if you ignore the joy of others?

H?l?ne, the Mother:
The pleasure only begins the moment the worm is in the fruit.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
Even if we're thousands of kilometers apart. We must refuse together the world of those patiently waiting for death to enlighten them. We must turn our backs to them with pride.

H?l?ne, the Mother:
Wrong isn't what we're about to do. Wrong is wanting to survive it.

R?a:
The origin of the world is this hole. Nowhere else. Never believe those who pretend otherwise.

R?a:
The last lap is always the best!

Pierre, the Son:
And as they did not like to acknowledge God, God delivered them over to a discerning mind, to do unsuitable things: being filled with all injustice, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, homicidal thoughts, strife, deceit, bad habits; whisperers, revilers, enemies of God. Some who understand the law of God still practice such actions. They are worthy of death. They not only do them, but even commend those who practice them.

Pierre, the Son:
Would you accept to be the mother of a god? To be Mary? Why are sons always asked to be gods?

Pierre, the Son:
Sometimes, I can admit if I love Hansi's ass so much, then it's because I want God to curse it. I now associate joy... That faraway joy in God that I knew... I admit they're both equally holy. Her ass makes me realize I never really loved God. I liked the idea of being abandoned by God. I was reciting catechism, that's all. God is something other than my old prayers. He is my way of losing my senses. By loving Hansi, I hope to slowly lose my senses. In a slow way, but not lifeless, you know. A choppy slowness. Choppy and scalp-tingling. It doesn't always make me happy. I don't think I lose my senses more with Hansi than with God. I don't know if you wanted to guide me toward this slowness. Maybe you think Hansi isn't perverse enough for me.