Цитаты из книги Дж

Her hand looks curiously thin and ineffective. As an object her hand looks as though it has been discarded. I can imagine or foresee it being different. It might caress me. It might hammer against my back. It might present itself as a five-teated udder to my mouth for me to suck each finger. None of this, however, is of any importance. My attention happened to fall upon her hand.

...by abstract metaphor I distance myself from my unique perception of her.

The sound of the sea on all her beaches—unless you accept the dictatorship of your intelligence—ultimately that is the only thing you can oppose to death.

The snow, white in the sunlight, both emphasizes the presence of the mountain and transforms it into a kind of absence.

The stranger who desires you and convinces you that it is truly you in all your particularity whom he desires, brings a message from all that you might be, to you as you actually are. Impatience to receive that message will be almost as strong as your sense of life itself.

...the five senses within whose pentagon each man is alone.

That is the only poem to be written about sex—here, here, here, here—now.

What afflicted her was the shock which she imagined her husband feeling at his own death. She imagined him dying in mortal disappointment.

I know what she is like. She is as fine as china. She's like that figure there with flowers around her waist. She needs to be protected and free.

I put my hand into the tunic pocket, continued the boy, and inside was—a crab! A large crab and it nipped me. I pulled out my hand and the extraordinary thing was that my hand was the crab! I had an arm, a wrist, and a crab for a hand.

On an afternoon in late May 1902 (a few weeks before the end of the Boer War), Beatrice seduces him. What happens happens like an undescribed natural event.

...the firmness with which she says certain words—RIGHTS, iDEAL, DISGRACE...

Now that he is eleven she thinks of him proudly as a man: a man to whom she can refer for support and justification: a man who, in many respects, is like a father to her.

What is it that cannot happen? And the child answers himself: Nothing. What is it that can happen? And the adult answers himself: Nothing.

Whilst she sings, he might be asking her: Helen, will you marry me? And whilst she sings, she might be answering: Yes. But he would not believe it, because he is fully aware that in consideration of everything in the world, except themselves, it is impossible.

Being in love is an elaborate state of anticipation for the continual exchanging of certain kinds of gifts. The gifts can range from a glance to the offering of the entire self. But the gifts must be gifts: they cannot be claimed. One has no rights as a lover—except the right to anticipate what the other wishes to give.

I intend to bring up my child as I choose, not as you choose. I will teach him myself. If he is a boy, he will begin life with the advantage of never having been told lies. If she is a girl, she will be loving and sincere and realistic.

Let us try to make a life together for all three of us. Four! Four? You have forgotten you are married.

...to make him feel that he had been understood and that therefore he was telling the truth.