There’s nothing more debauched than thinking. This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weed on a plot laid out for daisies.
Nothing’s sacred for those who think. Calling things brazenly by name, risque analyses, salacious syntheses, frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts, the filthy fingering of touchy subjects, discussion in heat—it’s music to their ears.
In broad daylight or under cover of night they form circles, triangles or pairs. The partners’ age or sex are unimportant. Their eyes glitter, their cheeks are flushed. Friends leads friend astray. Degenerate daughters corrupt their fathers. A brother pimps for his little sister.
They prefer the fruits from the forbidden tree of knowledge to the pink buttocks found in glossy magazines— all that ultimately simple-hearted smut. The books they relish have no pictures. What variety they have lies in certain phrases marked with a thumbnail or a crayon.
It’s shocking, the positions, The unchecked simplicity with which one mind contrives to fertilize another! Such positions the Kama Sutra itself doesn’t know.
During these trysts of theirs, the only thing that’s steamy is the tea. People sit on their chairs and move their lips. Everyone crosses only his own legs so that one foot is resting on the floor while the other dangles freely in midair. Only now and then does somebody get up, go to the window, and through a crack in the curtains take a peep out at the street. -Wislawa Szymbroska