After so many years even the fire of passion dies, and with it what was believed the light of the truth. Who of us is able to say now whether Hector or Achilles was right, Agamemnon or Priam, when they fought over the beauty of a woman who is now dust and ashes?
Rest in Peace?’ Why that phrase? That’s the most ridiculous phrase I’ve ever heard! You die, and they say ‘Rest in Peace!’ …Why would one need to ‘rest’ when they’re dead?! I spent thousands of years of world history resting. While Agamemnon was leading his ships to Troy, I was resting. While Ovid was seducing women at the chariot races, I was resting. While Jeanne d’Arc was hallucinating, I was resting. I wait until airplanes are scuttling across the sky to burst out onto the scene, and I’m only going to be here for a short while, so when I die, I certainly won’t need to rest again! Not while more adventures of the same kind are going on.
To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? he said.I placed my hands flat on the table and leaned across it. Stay the hell away from him.Who? Oh, you mean the guy who's gonna bite it soon? He's not. He's going to be fine.He reached a hand out and placed it over my own. I snatched my hand back. He shook his head at me and whispered, You can't stop it.Watch me.
I had only to remember that centuries before, men fell in battle for the daughter of Troy, that passions carried greater weight than decorum. It took so little to prove that human life and property are devastatingly temporary. All she had to do was lie down for a prince. They burned the city to the ground.
And there they ring the walls, the young, the lithe. The handsome hold the graves they won in Troy; the enemy earth rides over those who conquered.
God, he was so beautiful. It was the tragic kind of beauty too, the kind you knew was doomed from the start. A face that launched a thousand ships and dug a million graves.
I’d start by laying her down on my bed and undressing her. Slowly. Carefully. So she wiggled and stretched and soft pants escaped her lips. My hands would be all over her. My mouth, too. When she wore nothing but the blue scrap of lace between her legs, I’d take her wrists and cuff her hands to my bedpost.
The signs of the old flame, I know them well.I pray that the earth gape deep enough to take me downor the almighty Father blast me with one bolt to the shades,the pale, glimmering shades in hell, the pit of night,before I dishonor you, my conscience, break your laws.
..and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the seaand what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl...
He waved to me to be quiet, as if I were annoying background noise. Look, whatever your name is...Benvolio Montague.Right. Look, Benvolio, why don't we go outside and get a taxi? My label has a New York office. We can go there and get you a money order or something. He smile, thinking himself clever. Come on, what do you say?Benvolio raised an eyebrow. I am begining to believe that you are insane.
Why should I blame her that she filled my daysWith misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire?What could have made her peaceful with a mindThat nobleness made simple as a fire,With beauty like a tightened bow, a kindThat is not natural in an age like thisBeing high and solitary and most stern?Why, what could she have done, being what she is?Was there another Troy for her to burn?