"These girls with old gents don't do it despite the age—they're drawn to the age, they do it for the age. Why? In Consuela's case, because the vast difference in age gives her permission to submit, I think. My age and my
status give her, rationally, the license to surrender, and surrendering in bed is a not unpleasant sensation. But simultaneously, to give yourself over intimately to a much, much older man provides this sort of younger woman with authority of a kind she cannot get in a sexual arrangement with a younger man. She gets both the pleasures of submission and the pleasures of mastery."
— Philip Roth (The Dying Animal)

"I can't feel my senses
I just feel the cold
All colors seem to fade away
I can't reach my soul
I would stop running, if knew there was a chance
It tears me apart to sacrifice it all but I'm forced to let go

Tell me I'm frozen but what can I do?
Can't tell the reasons I did it for you
When lies turn into truth I sacrificed for you
You say that I'm frozen but what can I do?"
— Within Temptation

"They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered."
— F. Scott Fitzgerald (This Side of Paradise)

"

Una mecenas

La hermosa y sensual señora se acostaba con los jóvenes escritores nacionales para mejorar la calidad de la nueva literatura erótica mexicana.








"
— José de la Colina

"I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark."
— Janet Fitch (White Oleander)

"See, the institutions and specialist, experts, you see. Yes, yes,
experts, indeed. See, they would have us believe that there is an order
to art. An explanation. Humans are odd creatures in that way. Always
searching for a formula. Yes, a formula to create an expected norm for
unexplainable greatness. A cook book you might say. Yes, a recipe
book for life, love, and art. However, my dear, let me tell you. Yes,
there is no such thing. Every individual is unique in their own design,
as intended by God himself. We classify, yes, always must we classify,
for if not, then we would be lost, yes lost now wouldn't we?
Classification, order, expectations, but alas, we forget. For what is art,
if not the out word expression of an artist. It is the soul of the artisan
and if his expectations are met, than who are we to judge whether his
work be art or not?"
— Cristina Marrero (The River: The Unsung Love Story)

"The sexual eagle exults he will gild the earth once more
his descending wing
his ascending wing sways imperceptibly the sleeves of the peppermint
and all the water's adorable undress
Days are counted so clearly
that the mirror has yielded to a froth of fronds
of the sky i see but one star
now around us there is only the milk describing its dizzy ellipsis
from which sometimes soft intuition with pupils of eyed agate
rises to poke its umbrella tip in the mud of the electric light
then great reaches cast anchor stretch out in the depths of my closed eyes
icebergs radiating the customs of all the worlds yet to come
bron from a fragment of you fragment unkown and iced on the wing
your existence the giant bouquet escaping fr4om my arms
is badly tied it didgs out walls unrolls the stairs of houses
loses its leaves in the show windows of the street
to gether the news i am always leaving to gather the news
the newspaper is glass today and if letters no longer arrive
it's that the train has been consumed
the great incision of the emerald which gaave birth to the foliage
is scarred for always the sawdust of blinding snow
and the quarries of flesh are sounding along on the first shelf
reversed on this shelf
i take the impression of death and life
to the liquid air"
— André Breton

"to poke its umbrella tip in the mud of the electric light "
— André Breton