She transformed his miseries into sexual excitements and, to give credit where it was due, turned his grief in a useful direction.

What I seem to do, thought Herzog, is to inflame myself with my drama, with ridicule, failure, denunciation, distortion, to inflame myself voluptuously, esthetically, until I reach sexual climax. And that climax looks like a resolution and an answer to many "higher" problems.

If venereal delight and the power of propagating the species were permitted only to the virtuous, it would make the world very good.

He then joins her on her side of the bed and they engage in a back-breaking labor of love that occupies them for twenty minutes and leaves them both with a grueling headache.

His imagery for a big orgasm was winning the sailboat race, the Renaissance, high mountains.

My own view, for what it's worth, is that sexuality is lovely, there cannot be too much of it, it is self-limiting if it is satisfactory, and satisfaction diminishes tension and clears the mind for attention and learning.

Sex is the point of contact between man and nature, where morality and good intentions fall to primitive urges.

I sometimes think novelists write about sex in order to avoid boring themselves to death.

Some have held the Eye to be The instrument of lechery, More furtive than the Hand in low And vicious venery-Not so! Its rape is gentle, never more Violent than a metaphor.

Sex builds no roads, writes no novels, and sex certainly gives no meaning to anything in life but itself.