“But the solitude changes. At first it is fresh and new, like any lover, an adventure, a ravishing excitement, a sensual derangement: then it gets deeper, tougher, lonelier, not because one wants the closeness of friends but because one doesn't, can't: can barely remember wanting anything but solitude. One remembers wanting, needing, like one remembers a childhood dream: but even the memory seems frivolous, trivial, a distraction: solitude kills the need for anything but itself, like any grand passion. It changes one, irrevocably. Promiscuous warmth dies, all goodhearted fellowship with others dies, seems false and cheap. Only burning ice is left inside.”

—Andrea Dworkin