Delta Of Venus Quotes

Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.

He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.

He was jealous of her future, and she of his past.

I had a feeling that Pandora's box contained the mysteries of woman's sensuality, so different from a man's and for which man's language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.

Also, I do not like the companionship of women. They are petty and personal. They hang on to their mysteries and secrets, they act and pretend. I like the character of men better.

I feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. You should not love me. One ought not to love the moon. If you come too near me, I will hurt you.

And in his eyes he had the look of the cat who inspires a desire to caress but loves no one, who never feels he must respond to the impulses he arouses.

I want to fall in love in such a way that the mere sight of a man, even a block away from me, will shake and pierce me, will weaken me, and make me tremble and soften and melt.

There is a perfection in everything that cannot be owned,

There is a perfection in everything that cannot be owned.

words carry colors and sounds into the flesh

He had not touched me. He did not need to. His presence had affected me in such a way that I felt as if he had caressed me for a long time.

When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolflike sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts. Naked now, he lay his full length over her. She enjoyed his weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under his body. She wanted him soldered to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body.

Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.

Even when they did not look at each other or speak to each other, he could feel a powerful current between them.

I gathered poets around me and we all wrote beautiful erotica. As we were condemned to focus only on sensuality, we had violent explosions of poetry. Writing erotica became a road to sainthood rather than to debauchery.

The most haunting woman is the one we cannot find in the crowded café when we are looking for her, the one that we must hunt for, and seek out through the disguises of her stories.

How do I look to him?" she asked herself. She got up and brought a long mirror towards the window. She stood it on the floor against a chair. Then she sat down in front of it on the rug and, facing it, slowly opened her legs. The sight was enchanting. The skin was flawless, the vulva, roseate and full. She thought it was like the gum plant leaf with its secret milk that the pressure of the finger could bring out, the odorous moisture that came like the moisture of the sea shells. So was Venus born of the sea with this little kernel of salty honey in her, which only caresses could bring out of the hidden recesses of her body.

Instead of answering her as soon as he saw her hair grow electric, her face more vivid, her eyes like lightning, her body restless and jerky like a racehorse’s, he retired behind this wall of objective understanding, this gentle testing and acceptance of her, just as one watches an animal in the zoo and smiles at his antics, but is not drawn into this mood. It was this which left Lilith in a state of isolation - indeed, like a wild animal in an absolute desert.

It was this that frightened me--the sense that behind the grande amoureuse lay concealed a little bourgeoise who wanted security in love.

I would tell him how he almost made us lose interest in passion by his obsession with the gestures empty of their emotions, and how we reviled him, because he almost caused us to take vows of chastity, because what he wanted us to exclude was our own aphrodisiac—poetry.

He never treated her as a wife. He wooed her over and over again, with presents, flowers, new pleasures.

She abandoned herself to his whim, thinking it was to be an orgy of eyes and hands only.

Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities. "You do not know what you are missing by your micro-scopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood. If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never-repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art . . . We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.

Her elongated eyes did not close as other women's eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers, pumas and leopards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow, with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done to her body. All this gave her an air of being made love to, which aroused the Baron as soon as he met her.

Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities.

I was sure the old man knew nothing about the beatitudes, ecstasies, dazzling reverberations of sexual encounters. Cut out the poetry was his message. Clinical sex, deprived of all the warmth of love—the orchestration of all the senses, touch, hearing, sight, palate; all the euphoric accompaniments, back-ground music, moods, atmosphere, variations—forced him to resort to literary aphrodisiacs.

A writer, who was a celebrity in Paris, had entered her shop one day. He was not looking for a hat. He asked if she sold luminous flowers that he had heard about, flowers which shone in the dark. He wanted them, he said, for a woman who shone in the dark. He could swear that when he took her to the theatre and she sat back in the dark loges in her evening dress, her skin was as luminous as the finest of sea shells, with a pale pink glow to it. And he wanted these flowers for her to wear in her hair.

He held his steaming hands towards her, and she said, "You are the god of fire

You are a real hermaphrodite, Mafouka,’ I said. 'That is what our age is supposed to have produced because the tension between the masculine and the feminine has broken down, people are mostly half of one and half of the other. But I have never seen it before—actually, physically. It must make you very unhappy.

I was growing sad, sad with restlessness and hunger. I felt that nothing would happen to me. I felt desperate with desire to be a woman, to plunge into living. Why was I enslaved by this need of being in love first? Where would my life begin? It seemed to me that a great current was passing all around me and that I was left out. I would have to find someone who felt as I did. But where? Where?

There are things one reads that make you aware that you have lived nothing, felt nothing, experienced nothing up to that time. How can i begin to feel - to feel? I want to fall in love in such a way that the mere sight of a man, even a block away from me, will shake and pierce me.

The homosexuals wrote as if they were women. The timid ones wrote about orgies. The frigid ones about frenzied fulfill-ments. The most poetic ones indulged in pure bestiality and the purest ones in perversions. We were haunted by the marvelous tales we could not tell. We sat around, imagined this old man, talked of how much we hated him, because he would not allow us to make a fusion of sexuality and feeling, sensuality and emotion.

while the rest of the show continued, she made her round of the boxes. There, on request, she knelt before a man, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis in her jeweled hands, and with a neatness of touch, an expertness, a subtlety few women had ever developed, sucked at it until he was satisfied. Her two hands were as active as her mouth. The titillation almost deprived each man of his senses. The elasticity of her hands; the variety of rhythms; the change from a hand grip of the entire penis to the lightest touch of the tip of it,

Like the Baron, Mathilde developed a formula for acting out life as a series of roles—that is, by saying to herself in the morning while brushing her blond hair, "Today I want to become this or that person," and then proceeding to be that person. One day she decided she would like to be an elegant representative of a well-known Parisian modiste and go to Peru. All she had to do was to act the role. So she dressed with care, presented herself with extraordinary assurance at the house of the modiste, was engaged to be her representative and given a boat ticket to Lima. Aboard ship, she behaved like a French missionary of elegance. Her innate talent for recognizing good wines, good perfumes, good dressmaking, marked her as a lady of refinement.

Some literary recommendations: James Salter’s erotic masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime; Anais Nin’s collections of short stories Delta of Venus and Little Birds; the erotic novels Emanuelle by Emanuelle Arsan and Story of O by Pauline Réage; Harold Brodkey’s sexual saga “Innocence”—perhaps the greatest depiction of a session of cunnilingus ever penned; novels by Jerzy Kosinski such as Passion Play and Cockpit; Henry Miller’s Under the Roofs of Paris and Quiet Days in Clichy; My Secret Life by Anonymous and The Pure and the Impure by Colette; Nancy Friday’s anthology of fantasies, Secret Garden (filled with the correspondence of real people’s fantasies); stories from The Mammoth Book of Erotica or one of the many erotic anthologies edited by Susie Bright. For those with a taste for poetry, try Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire or Flesh Unlimited by Guillaume Apollinaire. And for those who like comic books (kinky ones, that is), try the extra-hot works of writer/illustrator Eric Stanton, who specializes in female-domination fantasies.

He placed his mouth on her throat, kissing the words she could not utter. He seemed to divine where she wanted a kiss to fall next, what part of her body demanded to be warmed.

Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin and Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

Whatever tragic spirit lay behind this polished surface went into her singing, with which she tore people's serenity to shreds, spreading anxiety and regrets and nostalgia everywhere.

- Are you sad? Do you want me to leave? - I’m not sad, but I’m blocked. My whole past seems to stop me. I can’t let go. I feel as if I can inhale but not exhale. I’m just constrained, unnatural.

They walked in silence through the little streets of Chinatown. Women from all over the world smiled at them from open windows, stood on the doorsteps inviting them in. Some of the rooms were exposed to the street. Only a curtain concealed the beds. One could see couples embracing. There were Syrian women wearing their native costume, Arabian women with jewelry covering their half-naked bodies, Japanese and Chinese women beckoning slyly, big African women squatting in circles, chatting together. One house was filled with French whores wearing short pink chemises and knitting and sewing as if they were at home. They always hailed the passers-by with promises of specialities. The houses were small, dimly lit, dusty, foggy with smoke, filled with dusky voices, the murmurs of drunkards, of lovemaking. The Chinese adorned the setting and made it more confused with screens and curtains, lanterns, burning incense, Buddhas of gold. It was a maze of jewels, paper flowers, silk hangings, and rugs, with women as varied as the designs and colors, inviting men who passed by to sleep with them.

Often he quarreled, warred, drank, with a company of ordinary friends, spent evenings with ignorant people. She could not do this. She liked the exceptional, the extraordinary.

I hope you never marry a man you don’t love sexually. That is what I have done. I love everything about him, the way he behaves, his face, his body, the way he works, treats me, his thoughts, his way of smiling, talking, everything except the sexual man in him. I thought I did, before we married.

We were silly girls then. We thought only D. M. Thomas’s The White Hotel and Hélène Cixous and Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus managed to match our state of excitement. We were at it all the time. You were my first woman, as you probably don’t remember.” “I know that, don’t be cruel.” Martha stopped the car at the Parliament Street light and for a moment the only sound heard was the signal light ticking. “We had a private double entendre about the Bright Street cul-de-sac.

Not only is it not necessary to read “Interview With the Vampire” by Anne Rice before you die, it is also probably not necessary to read it even if, like Lestat, you are never going to die. If I were mortally ill, and a well-meaning friend pressed Anaïs Nin’s “Delta of Venus” into my trembling hands, I would probably leave this world with a curse on my lips.

Les longues nuits semblaient ne s'écarter qu'à regret de la ville, pour quelques heures. Une grise lumière d'aube ou de crépuscule filtrant à travers le plafond de nuées d'un blanc sale se répandait alors sur les choses comme le reflet appauvri d'un lointain glacier. La neige même, qui continuait à tomber, était sans lumière. Cet ensevelissement blanc, léger et silencieux s'étendait à l'infini dans l'espace et le temps. Il fallait déjà allumer les veilleuses vers trois heures. Le soir épaississait sur la neige des tons de cendre, des bleus opaques, des gris tenaces de vieilles pierres. La nuit s'imposait, inexorable et calmante : irréelle. Le delta reprenait dans ces ténèbres sa configuration géographique. De noires falaises de pierre, cassées en angles droits, bordaient les canaux figés. Une sorte de phosphorescence sombre émanait du large fleuve de glace. Parfois les vents du nord, venus du Spitzberg et de plus loin encore, du Groenland peut-être, peut-être du pôle par l'Océan arctique, la Norvège, la mer Blanche, poussaient leurs rafales sur l'estuaire morne de la Neva. Le froid mordait tout à coup le granit, les lourdes brumes venues du sud par la Baltique s'évanouissaient tout à coup et les pierres, la terre, les arbres dénudés se couvraient instantanément de cristaux de givre dont chacun était une merveille à peine visible, faite de nombres, de lignes de force et de blancheur. La nuit changeait de face, dépouillant ses voiles d'irréalité. L'étoile polaire apparaissait, les constellations ouvraient l'immensité du monde. Le lendemain, les cavaliers de bronze sur leurs socles de pierre, couverts d'une poudre d'argent, semblaient sortir d'une étrange fête ; les hautes colonnes de granit de la cathédrale Saint-Isaac, son fronton peuplé de saints et jusqu'à sa massive coupole dorée, tout était givré. Les façades et les quais de granit rouge prenaient, sous ce revêtement magnifique, des teintes de cendre rose et blanche. Les jardins, avec les filigranes purs de leurs ■ branchages, paraissaient enchantés. Cette fantasmagorie ravissait les yeux des gens sortis de leurs demeures étouffantes ainsi qu'il y a des millénaires, les hommes vêtus de fourrures sortaient peureusement l'hiver des chaudes cavernes pleines d'une bonne puanteur animale. Pas une lumière dans des quartiers entiers. Des ténèbres préhistoriques.

modiste

Fantasize, together: Take a page from The Thousand and One Nights and incorporate a story into foreplay. If you’re not a born storyteller, try reading one aloud together. Some literary recommendations: James Salter’s erotic masterpiece, A Sport and a Pastime; Anais Nin’s collections of short stories Delta of Venus and Little Birds; the erotic novels Emanuelle by Emanuelle Arsan and Story of O by Pauline Réage; Harold Brodkey’s sexual saga “Innocence”—perhaps the greatest depiction of a session of cunnilingus ever penned; novels by Jerzy Kosinski such as Passion Play and Cockpit; Henry Miller’s Under the Roofs of Paris and Quiet Days in Clichy; My Secret Life by Anonymous and The Pure and the Impure by Colette; Nancy Friday’s anthology of fantasies, Secret Garden (filled with the correspondence of real people’s fantasies); stories from The Mammoth Book of Erotica or one of the many erotic anthologies edited by Susie Bright. For those with a taste for poetry, try Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) by Charles Baudelaire or Flesh Unlimited by Guillaume Apollinaire. And for those who like comic books (kinky ones, that is), try the extra-hot works of writer/illustrator Eric Stanton,

Kay was showing this, exaggerating her whims- loving herself through Leila, really.

(Elena) Poderia o amor tornar-se um fogo que não queima, como as chamas dos homens santos da Índia? Estaria ela aprendendo a caminhar de modo mágico sobre carvões em brasa?

(Elena) Algo criara dentro dela um estado de perpétua defesa contra as possibilidades de experiência, um impulso de fugir que a retirava das cenas de prazer onde poderia se expandir. Por muitas vezes atingira esse limiar, mas fugira. E só podia culpar a si própria pelo que perdera e ignorara.

She was always storming alone, being angry alone, going through vast emotional upheavals in which he did not take part.

Gostava dos infernos do amor, do amor misturado com os grandes sofrimentos e os grandes obstáculos. Queria matar monstros, lutar e vencer inimigos como um novo dom Quixote.

Será que o amor sempre acabava por se transformar em uma longa sucessão de sofrimentos?

Você tem o hábito de regressar, iniciar uma caminhada e regressar. Isso é mau. É o primeiro dos crimes contra a vida. Acredito em audácia.

She would have liked to be like him, near to everyone, anyone, but she could not. It saddened her.

She was extraordinarily lovely, with something of both satin and velvet in her. Her eyes were dark and moist, her mouth glowed, her skin reflected the light.

Less poetry,” said the voice over the telephone. “Be specific.” But did anyone ever experience pleasure from reading a clinical description? Didn’t the old man know how words carry colours and sounds into the flesh?

Her eyes were blurred by the violence of her feelings.

The fall was greater than she had ever known, because she had ventured so far into emotion and had abandoned herself to it.

kissing the words she could not utter

a desire so violent it seemed devouring

This was the kind of feeling she wanted to inspire. Could she? Her glow was not of that nature. She was much more like fire than light.

I was growing sad, sad with restlessness and hunger. I felt that nothing would happen to me. I felt desperate with desire to be a woman, to plunge into living. Why was I enslaved by this need of being in love first?

Didn't the old man know how words carry colors and sounds into the flesh?