Christina Hesselholdt

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Camilla and the Horse

Camilla and the Horse

“This is going to be expensive,” I tell him, “you are conducting an expensive conversation.”

I wish I was Žižek. Žižek can get everything to make sense, if I had been Žižek now, right now, I would be lying in a Punic bordello having a fucking match with Houellebecq, the whores would not be trafficked, just glo-ba-lized—can you hear it being sung by Gregorian monks, or maybe a eunuch: glo-ba-lized pro-sti-tutes.

Camilla and the Horse

Camilla and the Horse

“This is going to be expensive,” I tell him, “you are conducting an expensive conversation.”

I wish I was Žižek. Žižek can get everything to make sense, if I had been Žižek now, right now, I would be lying in a Punic bordello having a fucking match with Houellebecq, the whores would not be trafficked, just glo-ba-lized—can you hear it being sung by Gregorian monks, or maybe a eunuch: glo-ba-lized pro-sti-tutes.