| Wendla Soldan-Brofeldt, 'Fishermen with Net' |
'We lorde,' quoþ þe gentyle kny3t, 'wheþer þis be þe grene chapelle?' He my3t aboute mydny3t þe dele his matynnes telle.
Wednesday, 12 June 2024
| Lehnert, Tunisian |
André Gide writes
There was nothing constrained here, nothing precipitate, nothing doubtful; there is no taste of ashes in the memory I keep. My joy was unbounded, and I cannot imagine it greater, even if love had been added.
How could love have entered into this? How could I have left my heart at the mercy of desire? My pleasure was quite free from ulterior motives and was not to be succeeded by any remorse. But then what name can I give to the transports with which I crushed in my bare arms this perfect little body, wild, burning, sensual and mysterious?
Long after Mohammed had left me I stayed there in a state of quivering jubilation, and although I had reached the summit of pleasure five times with him I revived my ecstasy many more times, and back in my hotel room I relived its echoes until morning.
Tuesday, 11 June 2024
Monday, 10 June 2024
| The Warren Cup. Roman, c.10 AD. |
Sunday, 11 February 2024
Friday, 27 October 2023
Friday, 20 October 2023
Portaui lacrimis madidus te, nostra catella,
Quod feci lustris laetior ante tribus.
Ergo mihi, Patrice, iam non dabis oscula mille
Nec poteris collo grata cubare meo.
Tristis marmorea posui te sede merentem
Et iunxi semper manib(us) ipse meis
Morib(us) argutis hominem simulare paratam,
Perdidimus quales hei mihi delicias.
Tu, dulcis Patrice, nostras attingere mensas
Consueras, gremio poscere blanda cibos,
Lambere tu calicem lingua rapiente solebas,
Quem tibi saepe meae sustinuere manus,
Accipere et lassum cauda gaudente frequenter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)