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There is an invincible taste for prostitution in the heart of man, from which comes his horror of solitude. He wants to be two. The man of genius wants to be one.… It is this horror of solitude, the need to lose oneself in the external flesh, that man nobly calls the need to love.

The more a man cultivates the arts, the less he gets hard. There is an ever more sensible divorce between the spirit and the brute. Only the brute gets a good hard-on, and fucking is the lyricism of the masses. To fuck is to aspire to enter another, and the artist never pulls out of himself.