Men Are Freest When They Are Most

Only The Flow Matters; Live And Let Live, Love And Let Love. There Is No Point In Love.

There Was A Warmth Of Fury In His Last Phrases. He Meant She Loved Him More Than He Her. Perhaps He Could Not Love Her. Perhaps She Had Not In Herself That Which He Wanted. It Was The Deepest Motive Of Her Soul, This Self-mistrust. It Was So Deep She Dared Neither Realise Nor Acknowledge. Perhaps She Was Deficient. Like An Infinitely Subtle Shame, It Kept Her Always Back. If It Were So, She Would Do Without Him. She Would Never Let Herself Want Him. She Would Merely See.

If Only I Am Keen And Hard Like The Sheer Tip Of A Wedge Driven By Invisible Blows, The Rock Will Split, We Shall Come At The Wonder, We Shall Find The Hesperides.

In Masturbation There Is Nothing But Loss. There Is No Reciprocity. There Is Merely The Spending Away Of A Certain Force, And No Return. The Body Remains, In A Sense, A Corpse, After The Act Of Self-abuse. There Is No Change, Only Deadening. There Is What We Call Dead Loss. And This Is Not The Case In Any Act Of Sexual Intercourse Between Two People. Two People May Destroy One Another In Sex. But They Cannot Just Produce The Null Effect Of Masturbation.

There Is A Brief Time For Sex, And A Long Time When Sex Is Out Of Place. But When It Is Out Of Place As An Activity There Still Should Be The Large And Quiet Space In The Consciousness Where It Lives Quiescent. Old People Can Have A Lovely Quiescent Sort Of Sex, Like Apples, Leaving The Young Quite Free For Their Sort.