Love is not a state, a feeling, a disposition, but an exchange, uneven, fraught with history, with ghosts, with longings that are more or less legible to those who try to see one another with their own faulty vision. — Judith Butlera
Night is longing, longing, longing, beyond all endurance. — Henry Miller, Sexus. (The Rosy Crucifixion #1). Grove Press January 12, 1994) Originally published 1949.
What I want is to open up. I want to know what’s inside me. I want everybody to open up. I’m like an imbecile with a can opener in his hand, wondering where to begin– to open up the earth. I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I’m sure of it. — Henry… Continue reading Henry Miller
And when she’s alone again, as truly alone in the world as she’s always felt herself to be, she looks at herself in a bamboo-framed mirror. Beautiful face, aglow with the taste of carnal pleasure, disdainful and avid … and above all an indefinable look in which can be sensed unspecified danger, sensuality triumphant and… Continue reading Louis Aragon
When life descends into the pit I must become my own candle willingly burning myself to light up the darkness around me. — Alice Walker, By the Light of my Father’s Smile. (Random House; 1st edition September 14, 1998)
I equate love (bodies touching indecently) to the limitlessness of being – to nausea, to the sun, and to death. —Georges Bataille, from “La Scissiparié,” Oeuvres Completes III. (Editions Flammarion July 27, 1984) Originally published in Les Cahiers de la Pléiade, Spring 1949.
Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea. — Georges Bataille, Death and Sensuality. (City Lights Publishers January 1,… Continue reading Georges Bataille