The tube of vaseline, which was intended to grease my prick and those of my lovers’ […] had served me in the preparation of so many secret joys, in places worthy of discrete banality, that it had become the condition of my happiness, as my sperm-spotted hankerchief testified. Lying on the table, it was a banner telling the invisible legions of my triumph over the police. I was in a cell. I knew that all night long my tube of vaseline would be exposed to the scorn - the contrary of the Perpetual Adoration - of a group of strong, handsome, husky policemen. […] Nevertheless I was sure that this puny and most humble object would hold it’s own against them; by its mere presence it would be able to exasperate all the police in the world; it would draw upon itself contempt, hatred, white and dumb rages. It would be slightly bantering - like a tragic hero bemused at stirring up the wrath of the gods - indestructible, like him, faithful to my happiness, and proud.