rhaeys

“It was 1977, Sid Vicious was still alive, and no one had a horror of bodily fluids. Vomit was one of the less precious bodily fluids, but after watching our wretched heroes slash their veins, blow mucus out of their nostrils, and void the contents of their stomachs onstage, we could scarcely upset ourselves over a harmless string of bile oozing from a lover's mouth. After all, the musicians vomited onstage to show their contempt for us, their audience. And contempt was surely an expression of love.”
― Poppy Z. Brite, Exquisite Corpse

“Earlier she had thought him insipid: his complexion too fair, his expression too bland. He had taken so little notice of her that she suspected he was perceptive only about himself. Now, in the slight flaring of his nostrils, the distainful slant of his head, she saw that he judged her naive. But for the discoloration of those tapering, nicotine-stained fingers drumming the tablecloth, she might have been afraid of him.”
― Beryl Bainbridge, An Awfully Big Adventure

“I now welcomed summer visits to relatives; they were reprieves from his relentless attention. Still, when I was home, I sought out that attention as avidly as ever. My need to please him and to receive the emotional reassurance he was willing to give me in return was so much greater than the uneasiness I felt. When his strange, cooing voice bothered me, the tenderness of his words erased my misgivings. When he touched my breasts, comparing them favorably to Mother's, my qualms were quieted by the comfort his gentleness gave me. This man, the one beside me in bed, was so much nicer than the exacting, austere authority who stalked about in the other rooms of the house, or the torpid figure who sat rocking for hours at a time, staring into space. Who wouldn't want to make this man appear as often as possible?”
― Judith Lewis Herman, Father-Daughter Incest

“POETA
I czegóż pani życzy?

RACHEL
Miodu, rozkoszy, słodyczy
miłości, roznamiętnienia
i szczęścia.

POETA
A miłość wolna?…

RACHEL
Ach, marzyłam o tym zawsze!

POETA
A gdyby tak szczęście łaskawsze
pożaliło się jej biedy?

RACHEL
Przestałabym marzyć wtedy.”
― Stanisław Wyspiański, Wesele