Happiness consumes itself like a flame. It cannot burn for ever, it must go out, and the presentiment of its end destroys it at its very peak.J. August Strindberg
- I disagree with Les. We always found good c*nt at the Lyceum. Friendly c*nt, clean c*nt, spare c*nt, jeans and knicker stuffed full of nice juicy hairy c*nt, handfuls of c*nt, palmful grabbing the c*nt by the stem, or the root – infantile memories of c*nt – backrow slides – slithery oily c*nt, the c*nt that breathes – the c*nt that’s neatly wrapped in cotton, in silk, in nylon, that announces, that speaks or thrusts, that winks that’s squeezed in a triangle of furtive cloth backed by an arse that’s creamy, springy billowy cushiony tight, knicker lined, knicker skinned, circumscribed by flowers and cotton, by views, clinging knicker, juice ridden knicker, hot knicker, wet knicker, swelling vulva knicker, witty c*nt, teeth smiling the eyes biting c*nt, cultured c*nt, culture vulture c*nt, finger biting c*nt, c*nt that pours, c*nt that spreads itself over your soft lips, that attacks, c*nt that imagines – c*nt you dream about, c*nt you create as a Melba, a meringue with smooth sides – remembered from school boys’ smelly first c*nt, first foreign c*nt, amazing c*nt – c*nt that’s cruel. C*nt that protects itself and makes you want it even more c*nt – c*nt that smells of the air, of the earth, of bakeries, of old apples, of figs, of sweat of hands of sour yeast of fresh fish c*nt. So – are we going Les? We might pick up a bit of crumpet.
- East (1975), Scene 17