DREAMING OF ARTAUD by Suzi M – Ulcer Magazine
“I used to be a story-teller,” he says bitterly, almost as if he has read my thoughts of him.
We continue walking, the ocean’s roar made more deafening by the darkness of the night. The salt spray clings to me, and I can feel its sting in my lungs. I wonder about this old man on the beach, the tight-lipped edges of his mouth stained by laudanum, and his face made haggard by life instead of by nature.
“I was famous in my time,” he explains to me. “They called me Artaud, giving me a god’s status until I told the story they didn’t want to hear.” READ MORE