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.