"Writing is an act of love. If it is not, it is mere penmanship. It must needs obey the same mechanism as plants and trees and project its sperm all around. The earth's luxury lies in waste. One fertilises, one falls by the wayside. That is how it is with sex. The heart of pleasure may be sharp but it is not precise. It invites the race to perpetuate itself. But nevertheless, it operates blindly. A dog makes love to my leg. A bitch goes for a dog. A plant that once stood tall and now wilts, yet makes for its seed a parachute which falls to earth before it can open......"
La difficulte d'etre, 1953
2008年2月14日 星期四
On Human Behaviour - Jean Cocteau
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