Brazil Red by Jean-Christophe Rufin

From his long years of sailing, Maitre Imbert instinctively recognised the seascape. He rarely got lost and had learned to distinguish the particular taster of each of the ocean provinces in the vast Atlantic. But it was beyond him to explain it. The height at which the birds flew, the quality of light at dawn and duck, certain colours in the water, drawn from the infinite register of dark blues and blacks, which reflected the relief of the sea floor.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover by David Herbert Lawrence

And thus far, it was a life: in the void. For the rest, it was non-existence. Wragby  was there, the servants; but spectral, not really existing. Connie went for walks in the park and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicked the brown leaves of autumn and picked the primroses of spring. But it was all like a dream; or rather, it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak-leaves to her were like oak-leaves seem ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows, or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything – no touch, no contact. Only this life with Clifford, this endless spinning of webs of yarn, of the minutiae of consciousness, these stories, of which Sir Malcolm said there was nothing in them and they wouldn’t last. Why should there be anything in them, why should they last? Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Sufficient unto the moment is the appearance of reality.

I don’t see a bit of connection with the actual violets, she said. The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I agree to anything. The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can. Mellors stood rather tall and thin, worn-looking, gazing with flickering detachment that was something like the dancing of a moth on the wing, at the pictures.

Success as the bitch-goddess that all men try to prostitute themselves to, the orgasm as crisis. Sir Pestle and Lady Mortar. John Thomas and Lady Jane.

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