11 Dec Love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory (MILAN KUNDERA)
But the fragile edifice of their love would certainly come tumbling down. For that edifice rested on the single column of her fidelity, and loves are like empires: when the idea they are founded on crumbles, they, too, fade away.
That is why, looking him straight in the eye, she insisted she had not had an orgasm even though the rug was fairly dripping with it. It’s not sensual pleasure I’m after, she would say, it’s happiness. And pleasure without happiness is not pleasure.
In other words, she was pounding on the gate of his
poetic memory. But the gate was shut. There was no room for her in his poetic memory.
There was room for her only on the rug.
I have said before that metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory.
The Unbearable Lightness Of Being
MILAN KUNDERA
