JUDY ‪❤︎‬

𝔚𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢, 𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔯… 𓂀

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭-𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞-𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐦𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

I am 𝕵𝖚𝖉𝖞, a teen fantasy writer conjuring a novel filled with:

𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗌

𝖽𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌

𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖼

𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗀𝗒𝗉𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆.

In my nook, you’ll find:

— 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝗒 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗅𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇

— 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀-𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌

— 𝖼𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝖾𝗆𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐

— 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗈𝗌)

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 — 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝, 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠, 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬. 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠.

If The 120 Days of Sodom stands as a cathedral dedicated to cruelty, its very foundation is constructed from the silent screams that history has chosen to overlook. Sexual assault — unfiltered, ritualistic, and incessant — is not merely a recurring theme in de Sade’s oeuvre; it serves as the sacred altar where power is consecrated. Within his chateau of depravity, rape evolves into a language, a syntax through which dominion is articulated. Yet, despite his radicalism, de Sade was not the pioneer in employing sexual violence as a metaphor. His narrative is not an outlier, but rather the zenith of a prolonged, brutal symphony that literature has quietly resonated for centuries.

1. From Rome to the Renaissance: The Myth as Mask

Long before de Sade inscribed his heretical lines, rape was woven into the fabric of literature as myth — enshrouded in deities and veiled in celestial light. Consider Ovid’s Metamorphoses: how frequently do nymphs flee, shrieking, from divine grasp? Daphne transforms into a tree to evade Apollo’s desire. Callisto, assaulted by Jupiter, is metamorphosed into a bear. Rape is transfigured — quite literally — into nature, mythologized into allegory. The brutality is not obscured, but rather romanticised, enveloped in the fragrance of symbolism.

These narratives do not depict consent, but rather the essence of conquest. The deities seize, and the world contorts itself around their plunders.

This mythology reverberates in Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, where Lavinia endures rape and mutilation, her tongue and hands severed to enforce her silence. And what is more damning — her violation, or the ensuing silence? Her body transforms into a palimpsest, a voiceless manuscript in a dialect that no one wishes to decipher. Even in The Rape of Lucrece, Shakespeare adorns rape with iambic grace, yet the horror remains undeniable: a woman’s virtue becomes the canvas upon which a man asserts his dominance.

2. Sanctified Violence: Religious Justification and Moral Apathy

The Bible resonates with haunting echoes. Dinah, Tamar, and the unnamed concubine in Judges 19 — these women endure assault, are bartered, and are torn apart. Their anguish serves as a warning rather than a lament. They are not portrayed as mere victims but are utilised as tools within larger moral or political discourses. Their suffering becomes a mere footnote. Their violation is framed as holy war.

Thus, Sodom is not an act of blasphemy emerging from nowhere; it reflects centuries of narratives where rape was not regarded as sin, but rather as a symbol. De Sade merely strips away the embellishments, the allegories, the divine justifications. He reveals the bare bones beneath the ornate facade.

3. The Colonial Gaze and Imperial Bodies

In more contemporary reflections, one might consider Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness — a narrative steeped in the imperial imagination. While it may lack explicit sexual content, the language is imbued with a sense of violation. Africa is depicted as the “dark continent,” the “virgin land” awaiting penetration by European dominion. The metaphor of rape is transposed from the female form to the world itself. Colonialism, too, embodies a form of sexual assault — a forced intrusion, a consuming act, a branding of ownership upon bodies that have not consented.

In a similar vein, Toni Morrison’s Beloved is haunted by the specter of sexual violence in every word. Sethe, who was raped during her enslavement, inhabits a reality where the bodies of Black women are treated as currency. Morrison does not shield us from the truth — she recounts the rape, the milk forcibly taken from her breasts, the bodily invasion that is both deeply personal and politically charged. Here, in contrast to de Sade, the victim finds her voice. Yet, the trauma remains indelibly marked.

4. The Unbearable Present

Returning to Sodom, to the chateau where laughter echoes the suffering of others. The brilliance of this book lies not in its content, but in its context. De Sade penned it within the confines of the Bastille, a man confined for his very deeds, crafting a grotesque monument to the transgressions he could no longer enact. This is his ultimate performance, not of desire, but of dominion. In the secluded wilderness of his psyche, where morality dares not intrude, he ascends to godhood — creating, defiling, annihilating.

In this act, he unveils a harsh reality:

Rape transcends mere sex. It embodies power. It signifies the obliteration of will, the rewriting of autonomy, the savage reminder that some individuals feel entitled to the bodies of others — whether through divine myth, aristocratic privilege, colonial edict, or sheer brutality.

5. The Survivor’s Silence and the Literary Responsibility

Literature, therefore, bears a dual responsibility: it can either conceal the wound beneath layers of metaphor or lay it bare, raw and bleeding. De Sade exposes it, yet provides no salve. He is the surgeon devoid of intent to mend. It is the other writers — Morrison, El Saadawi, Angeloum — who gather the fragmented remnants, who document not only the assault but also the aftermath. The survival. The defiance.

We must engage with Sodom not to master the art of writing, but to learn the importance of not averting our gaze.

This history of literary rape forms a brutal chorus — but if we listen intently, we can begin to discern the distinct voices:

The deities who justify.

The men who glorify.

The victims who remain unheard.

And the survivors who continue to sing.

May our pens serve them, not the libertines. May our narratives reweave what has been torn.