Sex is perhaps like culture - a luxury that only becomes an art after generations of leisurely acquaintance. At first you do it for your own pleasure. Then you do it for the pleasure of others. And finally, you do it for the money. All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique.
Literature is one vast hypocrisy, a giant deception, treachery.
All writers have concealed more than they revealed. The fate of love is that it always seems too little or too much. The older one grows, the more one likes indecency. The life of a wife and husband is never at rest. I stood for a few moments on the pavement and watched demoralized pedestrians move admist their blitzkreiged and chancrous landscape like Vices in one of those symbolic oddities by Breughel the Elder.