Diary of a Drug Fiend

62 The Diary of a Drug Fiend moral code has become meaningless for it. A more than Satanic pride swells in one’s soul. As Baudelaire says: “Hast thou not sovereign contempt, which makes the soul so kind?” As we drove up the Butte Montmartre towards the Sacré Coeur, we remained completely silent, lost in our calm beatitude. You must understand that we were already excited to the highest point. The effect of the heroin had been to steady us in that state. Instead of beating passionately up the sky with flaming wings, we were poised aloft in the illimitable ether. We took fresh doses of the dull soft powder now and again. We did so without greed, hurry or even desire. The sensation was of infinite power which could afford infinite deliberation. Will itself seemed to have been abolished. We were going nowhere in particular, simply because it was our nature so to do. Our beatitude became more absolute every moment. With cocaine, one is indeed master of everything; but everything matters intensely. With heroin, the feeling of mastery increases to such a point that nothing matters at all. There is not even the disinclination to do what one happens to be doing which keeps the opium smoker inactive. The body 1s left to itself so perfectly that one is not worried by its natural activities. Again, despite our consciousness of infinity, we Maintained, concurrently, a perfect sense of proportion in respect of ordinary matters.