Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.

For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.

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

What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?

Not many people can boast a photo of their grandmother posing for kiddiporn.

Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.

Mother is in herself a concrete denial of the idea of sexual pleasure since her sexuality has been placed at the service of reproductive function alone. She is the perpetually violated passive principle; her autonomy has been sufficiently eroded by the presence within her of the embryo she brought to term. Her unthinking ability to reproduce, which is her pride, is, since it is beyond choice, not a specific virtue of her own.