The Real Thing - Tom Stoppard

It's those little touches that lift adultery out of the moral arena and make it a matter of style.

HENRY: Are you all right? (ANNIE nods.)
ANNIE: Are you all right? (HENRY nods.)
Touch me.
(HENRY shakes his head.)
Touch me.
HENRY: No.
ANNIE: Come on, touch me.
Help yourself.
Tuch me anywhere you like.
HENRY: No.
ANNIE: Touch me.
HENRY: No.
ANNIE: Coward.
HENRY: I love you anyway.
ANNIE: Yes, say that.
HENRY: I love you.
ANNIE: Go on.
HENRY: I love you.
ANNIE: That's it.
HENRY: I love you.
ANNIE: Touch me then. They'll come in or they won't.  Take a chance. Kiss me.
HENRY: For Christ's sake.
ANNIE: Quick one on the carpet then.
HENRY: You're crackers.
ANNIE: I'm not interested in your mind.
HENRY: Yes you are.
HENRY: No, I'm not, I lied to you.
(Pause.  HENRY smiles at her.)
I hate Sunday.

I love love.  I love having a lover and being one.  The insularity of passion.  I love it.  I love the way it blurs the distinction between everyone who isn't one's lover.
Only two kinds of presence in the world.  There's you and there's them.
I love you so.

The first time I succumbed to the sensation that the universe was dispensable minus one lady - It's to do with knowing and being known.  I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek knowing was used for making love.  Whosit knew so-and-so.  Carnal knowledge.  It's what lovers trust each other with.  Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face.  Every  other version of oneself is on offer to the public.  We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy... we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation.  Our lovers share us with the passing trade.  But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other.  What selves?  What's left?  What else is there that hasn't been dealt out like a deck of cards?  Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised.  Knowing, being known.  I revere that.  Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what's shared - she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she's everybody's and it don't mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it's held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to known, and when it's gone everything is pain.  Every single thing.  Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster.  As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb.  Pain.

CHARLOTTE:  There are no commitments, only bargains.  And they have to be made again every day.  You think making a commitment is it.  Finish.  You think it sets like a concrete platform and it'll take any strain you want to put on it.  You're committed.  You don't have to prove anything.  In fact you can afford a little neglect, indulge in a little bit of sarcasm here and there, isolate yourself when you want to.  Underneath it's concrete for life.  I'm a cow in some ways, but you're an idiot.  Were an idiot.

HENRY:  What was that? (Pause) Oh... yes.  No commitments.  Only bargains.  The trouble is I don't really believe it.  I'd rather be an idiot.  It's a kind of idiocy I like. 'I use you because you love me.  I love you so use me.  Be indulgent, negligent, preoccupied, premenstrual... your credit is infinite, I'm yours, I'm committed... It's no trick loving somebody at their best.  Love is loving them at their worst.  Is that romantic?  Well, good.  Everything should be romantic.  Love, work, music, literature, virginity, loss of virginity... 

袁瓊瓊

讓彼此快樂，有什麼不對？

《壞女人》

但是泱聲只是不活潑。也不是毫無生氣，她只是非常緩慢，如同夜生植物，用一種悄沒聲息的方式延展和移動，像是永遠不會變化，像是固定住，但是過一段時間再望過去，會發現她已經到了另一個地點，化成了另一種形狀。

女人就是這樣，偶爾就會過頭。

“後來，死了。兩個人都死了。流血流了一夜。一定死啊。”
導演想半天：“不合理，這種事不可能發生的。”
編劇沒說話。不大能決定要不要讓導演看自己身上已然結疤的傷口。自己的經歷和編出來的故事，唯一的相異之處是：沒死，他和他的“李泱聲”都沒死。日後也沒見面。他有時想像那個女人身上必然也如他一般留著疤痕，會覺得自己的疤痕似乎在召喚她。那有時使他興起一種親切和懷念之感。
導演說：“兩個人難道不覺得痛嗎？刺了這麼多刀。”
“不痛，一點都不同。”他說的是真話，不過他覺得導演不會信。
他補了一句：“人生是什麼事都會發生的。”
他覺得導演也不會懂的。

CARNETS - Albert Camus

八月的雷雨天。熱風和烏雲。但東方卻透出一抹晴藍，輕盈而剔透。教人無法直視。這樣的藍，對眼睛和靈魂來說都是一種折磨。因為美會令人受不了。美讓人萬念俱灰，因為我們是多想要讓這種剎那的永恆一直持續下去。

旅行所必須付出的代價，就是恐懼。就是在某個特定的時刻，因為和自己的家鄉、語言距離得那麼遙遠（法文報紙成了無價之寶，還有那些泡在咖啡館裡的夜晚，和人的接觸即使只限於手肘的碰撞也好），我們會被一種模糊的恐懼去擭住，會本能性地渴望能夠再度收到積習的庇護。這就是旅行最明顯的收獲。處於這樣的時刻中，我們就像在發熱，卻又似海綿一般。最細微的碰撞，都能讓我們的存在根本產生動搖。連一道光瀑的洩下，都可以從中看到永恆。這就是為什麼我們不能說旅行是一種樂趣。旅行並不能帶來任何樂趣。我在旅行中看到的不如說是一種苦修。一個人之所以會踏上旅途，是為了自我養成，如果所謂的養成即是去鍛煉我們那最內在的、對永恆的感受。樂趣會讓我們迷失自我，就像 Pascal 人為消遣唯有令人和上帝更加疏遠。旅行，好比一門最龐大也是最沈重的學問，讓我們得以踏上歸途。

我們這些，我們不是有錢人，卻很能吃。你看我那個孫子，比他爸爸還會吃。他爸爸要吃半公斤的麵包，他就得來上一公斤。還有辣肉腸、油炸醃魚，都不會節制得。有時候吃完了，喘個兩口“呼呼”，再繼續吃。

而且慾望總是以厭倦收場。

今天，我似乎從自己過去和逝去的人生中解脫出來了。我只想要這份親密感和這塊封閉的空間 － 這種明智而耐性的虔誠。我覺得我的人生就像一塊被反覆揉捏的熱麵團，我只想把它掌握在自己的雙手上，對那些懂得將一己生命禁錮在花叢和列柱中的修士而言，也一樣吧！或者又好比搭乘那種長途夜間火車，在車上我們可以和自己對話，準備之後的行程，獨處，用不可思議的耐心去爬梳那些念頭，不教它們四處亂竄，然後繼續向前推進。舔舐自己的生命，彷彿那是一根麥芽糖，塑造它，磨利它，愛它，又像在尋找最後那個斬釘截鐵，可以作為結論的字眼、形象或句子，帶著它出發，從此透過它來觀看一切。我大可留下，為這一年來的疲於奔命畫上句點，我一定會努力將這場自己的面對面一直延續到底，讓它照見我在今生今世中的每一張臉，即使必須付出難以負擔的寂寞代價亦在所不惜。 1不要退讓：這一語已道盡。不要妥協，不要背叛。我會竭盡全力去達成某個境界，在那兒和我的所愛會合，接著，我倆將以最大的熱情去做那些構成我每日生活意義的事。