Alas, woman is faithful as long as she loves, but you demand that she be faithful without love and give herself without enjoyment. Who is cruel then, woman or man?
Work on.” Work as if every time you started with and every time you finish.
So,” Wanda cried, “a woman in furs is nothing more than a large cat, a charged electric battery?
You have corrupted my imagination and inflamed my blood…
It is only man’s egoism that wants to keep woman like some buried treasure.
We are faithful as long as we love, but youdemand faithfulness of a woman without love, and the giving ofherself without enjoyment. Who is cruel there–woman or man?
Yet I am not writing with ordinary ink, but with red blood that dripsfrom my heart. All its wounds long scarred over have opened and itthrobs and hurts, and now and then a tear falls on the paper.
I love her passionately with a morbid intensity; madly as one can only love a woman who never responds to our love with anything but an eternally uniform, eternally calm, stony smile.
The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped,deserves to be whipped.
You of the North in general take love too soberly and seriously. You talk of duties where there should be only a question of pleasure.
The real comic muse is the one underwhose laughing mask tears roll down.
I really believe,” said Wanda thoughtfully,”that your madness is nothing but a demonic, unsatisfied sensuality. Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane.