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Quote by Djuna Barnes

“The heart of the jealous knows the best and the most satisfying love, that of the other's bed, where the rival perfects the lover's imperfections. Fancy gallops to take part in that duel, unconstrained by any certain articulation of the laws of that unseen game.”

Quote by Djuna Barnes

Work

Nightwood

Nightwood is a complex and haunting narrative that delves into the psychological and emotional complexities of its characters. The story is set against the backdrop of the turbulent period following World War I, offering a glimpse into the lives of individuals grappling with their identities and desires. The novel is known for its poetic prose and its exploration of the nature of love, the struggle for self-acceptance, and the search for belonging. more

Author

Djuna Barnes
Djuna Barnes

Djuna Barnes, an American writer, was born on June 12, 1892, and died on June 18, 1982. She is known for her unique literary style and profound modernist thoughts. more

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“The couple were thus revealed to me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was ‘the Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels,—my gifts of course,—and there was her companion in an officer’s uniform; and I knew him for a young roué of a vicomte—a brainless and vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society, and had never thought of hating because I despised him so absolutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love for Céline sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she deserved only scorn; less, however, than I, who had been her dupe.”

“It is human nature to want approval, acceptance, and adoration because it feels good. In order to achieve adoration, it requires comparison with a group then deviation from that group. Equality will never generate adoration. You must extricate yourself from a group in order to emphasize your differences. Emphasizing differences emphasizes disparity, contrast, and nonconformity. Ironically, the need for love leads to hate. How is hate created? Hate is linked to its predecessor jealousy, which is an emotional bond of unfulfilled need, fear of loss, and belief in limitation that forces a will upon the one who is not conforming. It is the need to control a being through force by threatening violence or humiliation.”

“(...) jealousy is painful not least because it sees the object of love, once sacred, as now desecrated. One cure for the pain of desecration is the move towards total profanation: in other words, to wipe out all vestiges of sanctity from the once worshipped object, to make it merely a thing of the world, and not just a thing in the world, something that is nothing over and above the substitutes that can at any time replace it.”

“He stopped a few inches from her. Brushing back the sides of his black velvet jacket, he put his hands on his hips, his booted feet planted apart, his legs spread in a decidedly aggressive stance. “You could say that,” he drawled in an awful voice. “Where the hell have you been?” “At—at Lady Dunworthy’s ball.” “Until dawn?” he sneered. “Yes. There’s nothing unusual in that. You know how late these things go—” “No, I don’t know,” he said tightly. “Suppose you tell me why the minute you are out of my sight you forget how to count!” “Count?” Victoria repeated, growing more frightened by the moment. “Count what?” “Count days,” he clarified acidly. “I gave you permission to be here for two days, not four!” “I don’t need your permission,” Victoria burst out unwisely. “And don’t pretend you care whether I’m here or at Wakefield!” “Oh, but I do care,” he said in a silky voice, stripping off his jacket with slow deliberation and beginning to unbutton his white lawn shirt. “And you do need my permission. You’ve become very forgetful, my sweet—I’m your husband, remember? Take off your clothes.” Wildly, Victoria shook her head. “Don’t make me angry enough to force you,” he warned softly. “You won’t like what happens if you do, believe me.” Victoria believed that wholeheartedly. Her shaking hands went to the back of her dress, awkwardly fumbling with the tiny fasteners. “Jason, for God’s sake, what’s wrong?” she pleaded. “What’s wrong?” he repeated scathingly, tossing his shirt on the floor. “I’m jealous, my dear.” His hands went to the waistband of his trousers. “I’m jealous, and I find the feeling not only novel, but singularly unpleasant.”