I live like a pig in the eyes of Christians without stopping myself at this laughable idea; this, from which I am in some way altered, is to burn: I suffer from not burning in my turn to the point of bringing myself so close to death that I breathe it in like the breath of a beloved.
A kind of hallucinating darkness causes me to slowly lose my head, communicates a contortion of all being toward the impossible. Towards who knows what hot, flowery, fatal explosion … in which I escape the illusion of a solid relationship between me and the world. A brothel is my true church, the only one insatiable enough. I can gluttonously seek the way saints burn, but their “requiescat” is cursed by my lightness. I have known ecstatic, illuminated repose, but should I have been chased from the glimpsed kingdom, if it had given me stability, I could only have cursed it.
– Georges Bataille. Guilty: Le Coupable