How far does a pretence of feeling$$$ maintained with absolute conviction$$$ become authentic?

Like the wild beasts$$$ she lives without a future. She inhabits only the present tense$$$ a fugue of the continuous$$$ a world of sensual immediacy as without hope as it is without despair.

I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.

It is far easier for a woman to lead a blameless life than it is for a man; all she has to do is to avoid sexual intercourse like the plague.

The child's laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.

I loved him for his beauty. As I would again if he came near. Beauty convinces.

She said$$$ "When you see these horrible images why do you stay with them? Why keep watching? Why not go away?" I was amazed. Go away where? I said.

I don't want to be a person. I want to be unbearable.

That tang of dogshit in darkness. That's your starry crown.

These days Geryon was experiencing a pain not felt since childhood. His wings were struggling. They tore against each other on his shoulders like the little mindless red animals they were.