She looked at me with utter contempt, as if I were a member of an inferior species, and a poor representative of that, to boot. ‘Listen to me,’ she said. ‘I’ll say this just once. And I’ll say it without any interruptions from you. The 120 days of Sodom – not to be confused with our 520 days of Boredom – are devoted to the graphic illustration, at the rate of 5 per day, of the 600 extravagancies, contingencies, and ramifications of debauchery, starting with the simple, proceeding through the complex and the criminal, and culminating in the murderous. Don’t start twitching – I know perfectly well what you wish to say and I don’t wish to hear it. I don’t approve of what Hitler did either – at least not in all cases. But if you ask me what I find likeable, then I’m going to tell you. I like the theatricality of it all. I like the treating of sex as a kind of comedy of manners. I prefer publicity to secrecy in sexual matters, as you know. And I like dangerously amusing social occasions. Madame Duclos, who resembles me in having large and perfect breasts, and who is the narrator for the month of November, sits gorgeously rouged and bejewelled on a throne which is mounted on a stage, and delivers her five autobiographical illustrations daily, with great wit and verve and charm, but without – and this should interest you – omitting a single detail, no matter how personally revealing or degrading, to an audience which comprises the Duc de Blangis, who is endowed with a monstrous member, the Bishop of X, a faithful sectary of sodomy, President de Curval, who is infrequently erect, and Durcet, who is short and squat and somewhat effeminate in build and taste, together with one another’s wives who are also one another’s daughters, a Harem of carefully picked little girls, a Harem of even more carefully picked little boys, Eight Fuckers among whom are to be numbered Hercule, Invictus, Antinous, and Bum-Cleaver, plus all other necessary props and procuresses. These, as you might expect, take a lively interest in Madame Duclos’ disclosures, and although a strict timetable has to be respected, are not discouraged from vigorous audience participation. Now all this, Barney – though I can see from the expression on your face that you are not disposed to agree with me – all this seems to me a more amusing theatre for the indulgence of impossible sexual fantasies than the sombre seclusion of a domestic bed. I don’t say that one cannot live without an orgy, but if such is one’s taste’ (I was looked at very punishingly here) ‘then it strikes me that it is better gratified with style and wit and varied company, in a setting that doesn’t preclude the other social pleasures such as food and drink and conversation, and in an atmosphere at once light and vivifying, that allows one to follow one’s own predilections and not just those of the person who is whispering pathetically and proprietorially in one’s ear. And now can I have my book back please?’