“Memory is too unreliable to be ‘truthful’.”
“All true? I think autobiographers are big liars.”
“I suppose you could say that Paul is a … hustler? His rich wife Corina paid him grandly when they divorced, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s called alimony,” I laughed.”
“How erotic Texas must be!” she said.
I was sure she had meant “exotic,” but I followed through: “Maybe, if you find cactus and deserts erotic, sensual.”
“It was never about the money; at times no money was involved, just sex.”
“Then what?”
“It was always about—” I had never asked that question of myself. “It was always about—” No word came, no answer.
“Power.”
“I think the camouflage of fiction allows more authenticity – you know, acknowledging that it is a ‘fiction’, a terrific lie, and that you want it to be believed.”
“Love can fuck up desire, I’ll agree to that,” I said, and I believed that. If, on the occasions when someone I had sex with remained after orgasm, and an edge of friendship was being suggested to me—as, say, we might lie, though rarely, talking—if, then, at those times, all desire faded.”
“No, I did not tell him about the raids on gay bars; cops invading private homes to arrest men having sex, the sexual act being illegal; entrapment, lying, aroused cops, years-long prison terms, suicides, violence.”
“During the Mardi Gras carnival in New Orleans, drunk and drugged and sleepless for sex-driven nights and days, I saw leering clowns on gaudy floats tossing cheap necklaces to grasping hands that clutched and grabbed and tore them, spilling beads; and revelers crawled on littered streets, wrestling for them, bleeding for them on sidewalks; and beads fell on spattered blood like dirty tears—and I saw costumed revelers turn into angels, angels into demons, demons into clowning angels; and in a flashing moment the night split open into a deeper, darker chasm out of which soared demonic clowning angels laughing.”
“Because it’s getting to be the blue hour, and that’s the time when everything is revealed.”
“―Viipuri vallattu, kähisi hän eteenpäin, huomaamatta muuttaa äänensävyään, niin että edelläkulkeva mies sai ilmoituksen vihan pakahduttamalla äänellä, ikään kuin pahinta, mitä Lehto tiesi maailmassa olevan, olisi ollut Viipurin valtaus.”
“And the strange thing was he had never loved her more than in that moment, because at that moment she had become himself.
But thats not love, he thought, thats not what she wants, not what any of them want, they do not want you to find yourself in them, they want instead that you should lose yourself in them. And yet, he thought, they are always trying to find themselves in you. [...]
And it seemed to him then that every human was always looking for himself, in bars, in railway trains, in offices, in mirrors, in love, especially in love, for the self of him that is there, someplace, in every other human. Love was not to give oneself, but find oneself, describe oneself. And that the whole conception had been written wrong. Because the only part of any man that he can ever touch or understand is that part of himself he recognises in him. And that he is always looking for the way in which he can expose his sealed bee cell and reach the other airtight cells with which he is connected in the waxy comb.
And the only way he had ever found, the only code, the only language by which he could speak and be heard by other men, could communicate himself, was with a bugle. If you had a bugle here, he told himself, you could speak to her and be understood, you could play Fatigue Call for her, with its tiredness, its heavy belly going out to sweep somebody else's streets when it would rather stay home and sleep, she would understand it then.
But you havent got a bugle, himself said, not here nor any other place. Your tongue has been ripped out. All you got is two bottles, one nearly full, one nearly empty.”
“#41: SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE SLEEPY. CATS TAKE NAPS SO THEY’RE ALWAYS READY FOR ANYTHING.”
“Such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!”
“The ability to think for one's self depends upon one's mastery of the language.”
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