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A Oliveira le gustaba hacer el amor con la Maga porque nada podía ser más importante para ella y al mismo tiempo, de una manera difícilmente comprensible, estaba como por debajo de su placer, se alcanzaba en él un momento y por eso se adhería desesperadamente y lo prolongaba, era como un despertarse y conocer su verdadero nombre, y después recaía en una zona siempre un poco crepuscular que encantaba a Oliveira temeroso de perfecciones, pero que la Maga sufría de verdad cuando regresaba a sus recuerdos y a todo lo que oscuramente necesitaba pensar y no podía pensar, entonces había que besarla profundamente, incitarla a nuevos juegos, y la otra, la reconciliada, crecía debajo de él y lo arrebataba, se daba entonces como una bestia frenética, los ojos perdidos y las manos torcidas hacia adentro, mítica y atroz como una estatua rodando por una montaña, arrancando el tiempo con las uñas. ↗
Time seemed to stand still as they remained embraced, him holding his body weight on his elbows as he looked down at her and grinned. “Now that’s a vacation.” She laughed and then his grin fell and he shook his head. “Like a couple of horny teenagers with no thought of tomorrow and no thought of protection. We should both be shot.” “Can you wait until the glow leaves me before you shoot me?” she asked. He smiled down at her. “You are glowing. You look gorgeous.” “It’s the look of a sated woman.” “I like it. ↗
Life, it has been agreed by everyone whose opinion is worth consulting, is the only fit subject for novelist or biographer; life, the same authorities have decided, has nothing whatever to do with sitting still in a chair and thinking. Thought and life are as the poles asunder. Therefore — since sitting in a chair and thinking is precisely what Orlando is doing now — there is nothing for it but to recite the calendar, tell one’s beads, blow one’s nose, stir the fire, look out of the window, until she has done… Surely, since she is a woman, and a beautiful woman, and a woman in the prime of life, she will soon give over this pretence of writing and thinking and begin at least to think of a gamekeeper (and as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking). And then she will write him a little note (and as long as she writes little notes nobody objects to a woman writing either) and make an assignation for Sunday dusk… She was kind to dogs, faithful to friends, generosity itself to a dozen starving poets, had a passion for poetry. But love — as the male novelists define it — and who, after all, speak with greater authority? — has nothing whatever to do with kindness, fidelity, generosity, or poetry. Love is slipping off one’s petticoat and — But we all know what love is… If then, the subject of one’s biography will neither love nor kill, but will only think and imagine, we may conclude that he or she is no better than a corpse and so leave her. ↗
Berlin was charismatic in the roguish way of a love... It was a lover who was a little dangerous in ways that didn't always show, keeping you a bit on edge, a bit in love and endlessly forgiving because he made her feel that she was exactly where she was meant to be... Berlin made you like who you were when you were there, as if everything worth being a part of in the world - all those modern ideas about sex and art and women; all that possibility - was right there, in its dark, beating heart. ↗
Look, I'm not going to have sex with him just so he'll say that he loves me, you know?" ...That isn't why I was planning to have sex with Rob - to hear the words, I mean. I just wanted to get it over with. I think. Actually, I'm not sure why it seemed so important. ↗
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