With lesbians the lure seems to be softness and sensuality. The sexual processes of women are so subtle and so complicated that it usually takes someone of the same sex to know how to please them.
Illustration: Women intertwined, Moghul India, eighteenth century
Related: Jean Genet on Male Homosexuality
Most men are potential desperadoes; but the concept of the female criminal seems paradoxical. Laws enforce a stability whose ultimate domestic unit is the woman herself; her physiology and psychology turn on the cultivation of inner space, while the man’s role calls for the conquest of outer space, for thrust and adventure, for arrowing forms of outward assertion as various as rape and theology, as admirable as scientific exploration and as deplorable as war. The most common form of female criminality – prostitution – is, however masked by toughness, an act of submission, and keeps the peace. True, the insect world (not to mention the world of literary criticism) offers striking instances of female enlargement and predation, but the unhappy history of the male praying mantis confirms that the seminal contribution to the generative process, though not negligible, is momentary and helps account for the primordial willingness of men to undergo risk.
From Albertine Disparue, a review of two novels by Albertine Sarrazin (1967)
Picked-Up Pieces (1975)
Painting by Giorgione: The Tempest (c. 1508)
Women over thirty are at their best, but men over thirty are too old to recognize it.
Photo by Helmut Newton: Sophia Loren, 1977
When every unkind word about women has been said, we have still to admit, with Byron, that they are nicer than men. They are more devoted, more unselfish, and more emotionally sincere. When the long fuse of cruelty, deceit and revenge is set alight, it is male thoughtlessness which has fired it.
Photo: Samira Makhmalbaf interviewed in Joy of Madness (2003)
It is easy to see that your father was a good man. But even with the best of men, the bread of human kindness will never be what it can be with a woman; there is always an outer shell of roughness. A man can never be the soul of kindness, as your mother seems to have been.
Quoted by Céleste Albaret in Monsieur Proust (1973)
Photo by Nadar: The artist’s mother (or wife – no one knows for certain) (1890)
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant’s body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.
Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924)
Painting by Titian: Venus Anadyomene (c. 1525)
I regard women as not necessarily frailer than myself, but more precious and valuable. So if I were to hold my umbrella over a woman to keep her dry rather than myself it would be because she was more worth keeping dry than I am. In my romantic view, she may be a princess or the richest woman in the world but she can never be more than a lady.
Manners from Heaven (1984)
Photo: Lady with a Wig, Egyptian, twelfth dynasty (1991-1786 BC)