She thinks, I'm telling him who I am. He's interested in who I am. That is true, but I'm curious about who she is because I want to fuck her. I don't need all of this great interest in Kafka and Vélazquez. Having this conversation with her, I am thinking, How much more am I going to have to go through? Three hours? Four? Will I go as far as eight hours? Twenty minutes into the veiling and already I'm wondering, What does any of this have to do with her tits and her skin and how she carries herself? The French art of being flirtatious is of no interest to me. The savage urge is. No, this is not seduction. This is comedy. It is not the connection - that cannot begin to compete with the connection - created unartificially by lust. This is the instant conventionalizing, the giving us something in common on the spot, the trying to transform lust into something socially appropriate. Yet it's radical innappropriateness that makes lust lust.
Animal Moribundo, Philip Roth
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