"But, do you know, it's really too tedious and
disgusting. Something on the nature of these flies which the actor
gentleman just represented. They're stuck together on the window
sill, and then in some sort of fool wonder scratch their backs
with their little hind legs and fly apart forever. And to play at
love here? ... Well, for that I'm no hero out of their sort of
novel. I'm not handsome, am shy with women, uneasy, and polite.
While here they thirst for savage passions, bloody jealousy,
tears, poisonings, beatings, sacrifices,--in a word, hysterical
romanticism. And it's easy to understand why. The heart of woman
always wants love, while they are told of love every day with
various sour, drooling words. Involuntarily one wants pepper in
one's love. One no longer wants words of passion, but tragically-
passionate deeds. And for that reason thieves, murderers,
souteners and other riff-raff will always be their lovers."
"And most important of all," added Platonov, "that would at once
spoil for me all the friendly relations which have been so well
built up.
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