"What's the name of the word for the precise moment when you realize that you've actually forgotten how it felt to make love to somebody you really liked a long time ago?"
- Delirium, Neil Gaiman, Sandman: Brief Lives (1992)
"But you're willing to be mine only under certain conditions, while I belong to you unconditionally--" "That's not wise, Severin," she replied, almost startled. "Don't you know me yet, don't you even want to know me? I am good if I am treated earnestly and reasonably. But if one submits to me too deeply, then I become arrogant--" "Then be that! Be arrogant, be despotic," I cried in utter exultation, "only be mine, be mine forever."
- Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs (1870)
His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.
- Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (1964)
There were days when she was very happy without knowing why. She was happy to be alive and breathing, when her whole being seemed to be one with the sunlight, the color, the odors, the luxuriant warmth of some perfect Southern day. She liked then to wander alone into strange and unfamiliar places. She discovered many a sunny, sleepy corner, fashioned to dream in. And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested.
There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why,--when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead; when life appeared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly toward inevitable annihilation. She could not work on such a day, nor weave fancies to stir her pulses and warm her blood.