PREFACE

I HAVE just read this curious volume which in a green-jacketed edition has caused such a furor among our gendarmerie. As a novel it is both erotic and ascetic. I might well imagine a smile crossing the features of the mysterious Miss Trepan (and I have no doubts that that is what she is) as I say this. So much the better. In the curious text which follows (see below) she has indeed created a work.

The slaves of the lower Antilles once revolted against the overlords of that tribe. Bodies were mangled and terror reigned over the otherwise peaceful isles. But within a few weeks after the initial uprising a representative of the ignorant slaves (who by that time were armed and immensely powerful) pleaded with the young son of a defunct overlord that the slaves might return to their former bondage. The young boy who had been educated in England did not want the slaves back. The angry savages killed the lad on the spot and mangled his body.

I find a similar flavor in the work of Miss Trepan.

In The Story of F this gaily flecked moth who enchants the night with her musk (and by this I refer to the curious Miss Trepan) has indeed spread a queer and elusive scent. I am reminded of the Dutchman who when asked why he ploughed his canal boat up and down the same straight canal all his life, replied, "Because it is there." The Story of F is also there and a such must be dealt with.

When the heroine cries out, "No, it is not me you seek, but another of my name," she captures the essence of that shy beguiling, no, demanding creature that is woman. We men are silly. When we whip our mistresses or have our hounds taunt them, we think it is we who enjoy this. Not so. It is the wily women (and I have no doubts that Miss Trepan is such a one) who with every shriek twist we men around their little fingers. What vain creatures! How silly we men! How silly women! How silly!

But I cannot help but think.

That brings us round again to the mangled boy in the Antilles. In his surrender to the butcher's knife he grasped that truth our mistresses know. I should imagine him happy.

PUBLISHERS NOTE

This is the first edition to appear in English of that strange, yet curious work, The Story of F by the mysterious Paulette Trepan who has us all guessing who she is. We at Grove Press are proud to be behind this work 100 per cent in case the passages on pages 35, 74 and 99 result in any litigation. Much as we dislike litigation we are unalterably courageous in these matters.

We at the Press feel that any work of literature that could win the approval of an immortal like M. Jean, who has chosen to remain anonymous by omitting his last name (there is a story, concerning M. Jean and this book, perhaps apocryphal, perhaps untrue--that when M. Jean was nominated for the Academic Francaise, 13,000 volumes of Miss Trepan's books were found in the meeting room of those immortels who were to decide on his admission. No one knows how they got there. It is a very simple story) is worthy of publication on our list. And we will stand by that decision come hell or high water.

ON THE STORY OF F

By Andre Malentendu

I am an unknown writer of pornography and I'd like to say I'm pleased as punch that Grove Press has offered me space in their introductions to this book to say that I'm 100 per cent behind everybody.

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE