Melissa P - 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

International Praise for Melissa P.s
100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed

Melissa P. is the ne plus ultra of an eye-watering literary phenomenon.

The Telegraph (UK)

In the world that surrounds [Melissa], adults have no interest in her and remain hostile, distant, and alien, even as theyre taking off their trousers. All this is conveyed with cold, almost hypnotic sadness, rendered with language much more elegant and precise than one would ever expect from a mere teenager.

Corriere della Sera (Italy)

Catherine M. can go put her clothes back on.

Les Echos (France)

This book is remarkable it will utterly scandalize the people who still think of teenage girls as half-formed dolls in pretty boxes.

BelleDeJour.com

Speaking with the honesty of Cline and the sensitivity of Duras, Melissa P. has given us a book that is at once astonishingly sad, astonishingly perceptive, and ultimately, astonishingly beautiful.

Nic Kelman, author of Girls

100 Strokes is an erotic chronicle of loss of innocence, charged with high-voltage sex.

El Pais (Spain)

The clear and uninhibited style of 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed is a great literary achievement.

Het Parool (Holland)

Melissa has ripped away the veil of hypocrisy that hides the real life of todays teenagers, a life far different from the platitudes of TV sitcoms.

Oggi (Italy)

by
Melissa P.

Translated from the Italian by
Lawrence Venuti

Copyright 2003 by Fazi Editore
Translation copyright 2004 by Lawrence Venuti

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

Originally published in 2003 in Italian by Fazi Editore under the title 100 Colpi di spazzola prima di andare a dormire

Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

P., Melissa.
[Cento colpi di spazzola prima di andare a dormire. English]
100 strokes of the brush before bed / by Melissa P. ; translated
from the Italian by Lawrence Venuti.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9903-4
I. Title: One hundred strokes of the brush before bed.
II. Venuti, Lawrence. III. Title.
PQ4900.P3C4613 2004
853.92dc22 2004047574

Black Cat
a paperback original imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

To Anna

The translator would like to thank Melissa P., for her patient answers to queries about stylistic matters; Lauren Wein, for her help with sartorial terms; and Martha Tennent, for her steadfast support, moral and otherwise.

6 July 2000
3:25 P.M.

Diary,

Im writing in my shadowy room plastered with Gustav Klimt prints and posters of Marlene Dietrich. As she levels her languid, haughty gaze at me, I scribble across a white page that reflects the sunlight seeping through the chinks in the blinds.

Its hot, a dry, torrid heat. I hear the sound of the TV in the next room, and my sisters tiny voice reaches me as she harmonizes with the theme song of some cartoon. Outside a cricket screeches like theres no tomorrow, but inside a soft peacefulness has descended on the house. Everything seems safely enclosed in a bell jar of the most delicate glass, and the heat weighs down every movement. But inside me theres no peace. Its as if a mouse were gnawing away at my soul, so gently that it even seems sweet. Im not ill, but Im not quite well; whats worrying is that Im not. Still, I know how to find myself: all I need do is lift my eyes and fix them on the reflection in the mirror, and a soft, peaceful happiness will possess me.

I admire myself before the mirror, and Im transported by the figure gradually emerging there, by the muscles that have assumed a firmer, more defined shape, by the breasts that are now noticeable beneath pullovers and bob gently at every step. Ever since I was little, my mother has innocently wandered around the house nude, so Ive grown accustomed to observing the female body, and a womans figure is no mystery to me. Still, an impenetrable forest of hair hides the Secret and conceals it from sight. Often, with my image reflected in the mirror, I slip my finger inside, and as I look into my eyes, Im filled with a feeling of love and admiration for myself. The pleasure of observing me is so intense and powerful that it immediately turns physical, starting with a twitch and ending with an unusual warmth and a shudder, which lasts a few moments. Then the embarrassment comes. Unlike Alessandra, I never fantasize when I touch myself. A while ago she confided to me that she too touches herself, and she said when she does it she likes to imagine shes being possessed by a man, hard, violently, as if she were going to be hurt. Gosh, I thought, and here I get excited simply by looking in the mirror. She asked me if I also touched myself, and my answer was no. I absolutely dont want to destroy this pillowed world Ive constructed, a world of my own, whose only inhabitants are my body and the mirror. Answering yes would have been a betrayal.

The only thing that really makes me feel good is the image I behold and love; everything else is make-believe. My friendships are fake, born by chance and raised in mediocrity, utterly superficial. The kisses I timidly bestow on boys at my school are fake: as soon as I press my lips on theirs, I feel a kind of repulsionand I bolt whenever I feel their clumsy tongues slipping into my mouth. This house is fake, so far removed from my current state of mind. I want every picture to be suddenly torn from the walls, a freezing, glacial cold to penetrate the windows, the howling of dogs to replace the crickets song.

I want love, Diary. I want to feel my heart melt, want to see my icy stalactites shatter and plunge into a river of passion and beauty.

8 July 2000
8:30 P.M.

A commotion on the street. Laughter fills the stifling summer air. I imagine the eyes of my peers before they leave their homes: bright, animated, yearning for a fun night out. Theyll spend it on the beach singing songs accompanied by a guitar. Some will wander off to spots cloaked in darkness to whisper infinite words into each others ears. Others will swim tomorrow in a sea warmed by the dim morning sun, guardian of a maritime life that is yet unknown. They will live and learn how to lead their lives. OK, Im breathing too, biologically Im on track. But Im afraid. Im afraid of leaving the house and facing strange looks. I know, I live in perennial conflict with myself: there are days when hanging out with the others helps me, and I feel an urgent need for them. But there are also days when the only thing that satisfies me is to be alone, completely alone. Then I listlessly drive my cat from the bed, stretch out on my back, and think. I might even play some CDs, almost always classical music. I perk up with the musics help and dont need anything else.