An ex-girl-friend-stripper-artist once told me that being beautiful – as painful as she found it to admit – was just as bad as being ugly, an Achilles heel, a burden that people hate you for. She may have called it “beauty persecution” or something like that.
Well, Emke saw it differently. Emke considered her considerable beauty to be like a lead guitar, the bumper on a ’62 Cadillac, a backlit Ingres in the Louvres, a spring-loaded firearm… Her beauty, simply put, made others nauseous. It had a destabilizing effect in crowds. Imagine Marilyn Monroe stepping off the Whirl-i-gig into Madison Square Garden during a cock fight. Everyone suddenly gets up off their haunches, standing erect as if saluting the flag, silent and humble for a few endless seconds as their cocks scurry about. Some people will never understand this almost vengefully ecstatic, life-fucking aspect of beauty.