one _can_ say--sometimes almost sincerely, alas!--just to
gain my ends. I confess all that, I cast it from me as if I was at
last ridding myself of the lies acted upon her, and upon the others,
and upon myself. Instinct is instinct; let it rule like a force of
nature. But the Lie is a ravisher.

I feel a sort of curse rising from me upon that blind religion with
which we clothe the things of the flesh because they are strong, those
of which I was the plaything, like everybody, always and everywhere.
No, two sensuous lovers are not two friends. Much rather are they two
enemies, closely attached to each other. I know it, I know it! There
are perfect couples, no doubt--perfection always exists somewhere--but
I mean us others, all of us, the ordinary people! I know!--the human
being's real quality, the delicate lights and shadows of human dreams,
the sweet and complicated mystery of personalities, sensuous lovers
deride them, both of them! They are two egoists, falling fiercely on
each other. Together they sacrifice themselves, utterly in a flash of
pleasure. There are moments when one would lay hold forcibly on joy,
if only a crime stood in the way. I know it; I know it through all
those for whom I have successively hungered, and whom I have scorned
with shut eyes--even those who were not better than I.

And this hunger for novelty--which makes sensuous love equally
changeful and rapacious, which makes us seek the same emotion in other
bodies which we cast off as fast as they fall--turns life into an
infernal succession of disenchantments, spites and scorn; and it is
chiefly that hunger for novelty which leaves us a prey to unrealizable
hope and irrevocable regret. Those lovers who persist in remaining
together execute themselves; the name of their common death, which at
first was Absence, becomes Presence. The real outcast is not he who
returns all alone, like Olympio; they who remain together are more
apart.

By what right does carnal love say, "I am your hearts and minds as
well, and we are indissoluble, and I sweep all along with my strokes of
glory and defeat; I am Love!"? It is not true, it is not true. Only
by violence does it seize the whole of thought; and the poets and
lovers, equally ignorant and dazzled, dress it up in a grandeur and
profundity which it has not. The heart is strong and beautiful, but it
is mad and it is a liar. Moist lips in transfigured faces murmur,
"It's grand to be mad!"