His mouth is on me, his hands, I can't wait and he's moving, already, love, it's been so long, I'm alive in my skin, again, arms around him, falling and water softly everywhere, never-ending.
If I thought this would never happen again I would die. But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from.
Neither of us says the word love, not once. It would be tempting fate; it would be romance, bad luck.
A great fear came over me, and my body went entirely cold, and I stood as if paralyzed with fear; for I knew that the horse was no earthly horse, but the pale horse that will be sent at the Day of Reckoning, and the rider of it is Death; and it was Death himself who stood behind me, with his arms wrapped around me as tight as iron bands, and his lipless mouth kissing my neck as if in love. But as well as the horror, I also felt a strange longing.
Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.
I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.
Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you've made.
Falling in love, although it resulted in altered body chemistry and was therefore real, was a hormonally induced delusional state, according to him. In addition it was humiliating, because it put you at a disadvantage, it gave the love object too much power. As for sex per se, it lacked both challenge and novelty, and was on the whole a deeply imperfect solution to the problem of intergenerational genetic transfer.
She had no images of this love. She could offer no anecdotes. It was a belief rather than a memory.
The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.
This is how the girl who couldn't speak and the man who couldn't see fell in love.
The Eskimos had fifty-two names for snow because it was important to them: there ought to be as many for love.
More Margaret Atwood Quotations (Based on Topics)
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