What is honor compared to a woman’s love? And what is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms? Or a brother’s smile?
Two days ago I strangled a woman to death just with my hands. That’s a strange sensation. Something so tremendous done by something so simple. The first ten seconds were uncomfortable, a feeling of limbo, but then your muscles tense, and she struggles and fights, but it almost disappears in the background along with everything else in the world. At that moment it’s just you and absolute power, nothing else. That moment stayed with me. I thought I’d feel guilty for being a murderer, but I don’t. I feel wonder.
Who wants transparency when you can have magic? Who wants prose when you can have poetry? Pull away the veil and what are you left with? An ordinary young woman of modest ability and little imagination. But wrap her up like this, anoint her with oil, and hey, presto, what do you have? A goddess.
That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? The one night stand. Man f***s woman. Subject man, verb f***s, object woman. That’s okay. Woman f***s man. Woman subject, man object. That’s not so comfortable for you, is it?
The first time you fall asleep in prison, you forget. You wake up a free woman. And then you remember that you’re not. You lose your freedom many times before you finally believe it.
I do not deny that that woman is horrible. Horrible. But in the next hundred years of living, you may find someone who treats you better, who screws you better, who makes you laugh more than cry. You’ll never find anyone who loves you as much as she does.