“My childhood was this golden thing, eradicable, intense sensations of entirely physical love remembered like short, sweet, delirious hallucinations, lucid in fog. Now I love no one, except that tender man now in the next room dreaming without memory, a blessed thing, or not dreaming at all: that curled-up blond muscled thing recalling every miracle of love from long ago. I was happy then: don't dare deny it. I don't love now, at all, except when I remember to love the blond boy, the stranger not even related to me, not part of anything from before, who sleeps in the next room: a tall blond man: when I remember to love him certain minutes of certain days. Don't look for my heart. The beasts have eaten it. What is his name?”

—Andrea Dworkin