Mały with delivery to Ireland

A year before Historia oka, I wrote a book entitled W.-C.: a slim little volume, thoroughly mad literature. W.-C. was mournful, just as Historia oka is youthful. The manuscript of W.-C. was burned, which is no loss compared with my present despair: it was a cry of terror.
One of the drawings in W.-C. showed an eye: the eye of the scaffold. Solitary, solar, studded with lashes, it opened in the lunette of the guillotine. The drawing was signed "eternal return", and that terrifying machine was the gate leading to it. Running from beyond the horizon, the path of eternity led through that scaffold. A parody line I had overheard in a sketch at the Concert Mayol gave me the idea for a caption:

– God, how sad is the blood of the flesh at the bottom of the shavings.

Georges Bataille