Escritos, 2

«Still in the small bedroom. I brood now on what truly mattered to me. I look at the twin beds where Jackie and Jack had slept and where, earlier, a classmate from St. Albans, Jimmie Trimble, and I had slept.
From below, I hear the cawing of Janet's voice, like that of some dark crow. Poor Jack, I think, a loveless marriage and a hateful mother-in-law. But then he had told a mutual woman friend that he had never loved anyone. Had I?
Since I don't really know what other people mean by love, I avoid the word. None of us brought up in a world of such crude publicness tends to trust much of anyone, while those who mean to prevail soon learn the art of distancing the self from dangerous involvements. In a recent biography of Jack, Reckless Youth, I was struck by the similarities between my youthful self and his, particularly in sexual matters. Neither was much interested in giving pleasure to his partner. Each wanted nothing more than orgasm with as many attractive partners as possible. I remember that he liked sex in a hot bath, with the woman on top, favoring his bad back. Once, with an actress I know, he suddenly pushed her backward until her head was under water, causing a vaginal spasm for her and orgasm for him. She hates him still.
On this point, Jack and I are unalike. All men-women, too?-have a streak of sadism. But mine was plainly narrower than Jack's. Also, the small bedroom reminds me that, unlike Jack, I had once been (in this very room-and ever-since?) in love.» (págs. 19/20)

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