The Life and Loves of a She Devil

I ran upstairs, loving, weeping. I will run downstairs, unloving, not weeping.

even as she says it, sees love drain out of his eyes: and somehow, as a stream, which seeks its own level, it flows over into hers, and her fate is sealed. The less he loves, the more she will.

for a man functions best if he ventures out into the world from a domestic setting in which his restless sexual and procreative energies are given liberty.

Up there on Olympus, where he’d been raised, where the mountain of reason pierces the sky of the intellect, the talk was all of how the soul suffered if the senses were gratified. Polly Patch would not allow it. She claimed, as the Devil would, that the senses and the soul were one: that gratifying one was to gratify the other.

We discuss things, rather than ideas; we exchange information, not theories; we keep ourselves steady by thinking about the particular. The general is frightening.

want revenge. I want power. I want money. I want to be loved and not love in return.