Not that I had any intention of accosting him to propose any practical agreement. That would have demanded on Laura's part a degree of devotion, of understanding, a detached view of the purely animal act of love, such as could not be expected of so young a woman who was so subject conventions of comportment in a society that had always shown itself incapable of differentiating between love and sexuality.

The mythology of the superstud...' my friend, the poet Henti Drouille, had written on a slip of paper before putting a bullet in his head. His mistress cried out to me: 'I don’t understand - I don’t understand! He was such a marvelous lover!' True enough, so marvelous that she had noticed nothing. I saw in my mind the virile mask of Jim Daley and seemed to hear his voice saying: 'She was probably the clitoral type. Sometimes, a man gets a break this way.' No, one has to know when to stop.

Could it have come for me, too, the time to 'save my honor'? How many men leave an 'overly demanding' woman to duck the moment of truth when their inadequacy can no longer be disguised? [...] 'She doesn’t excite me anymore' neatly passes the buck by leaving the woman feeling she is to blame, that she has somehow lost her attraction, her sex appeal, whatever; it is a ploy typical of the aging cock-of-the-walk whose strutting and preening are meant to conceal his private failings.

You are far too well informed a man to pretend that you don’t know what little game you are playing. If you have presentiments of death, it is because of certain wishes. You desire to escape sexual impotence - impotence, in short - and you wish for death to save you from all that. It is one of the virility’s favorite ploys.

Also, for the man, there is still one more loophole. If, by the grace of God, she’s humble by nature and and ready to assume guilt, she might just think: ‘I don’t turn him on,’ or ‘He doesn’t love me any longer.’ And there it is, then understanding between the sexes, my friend. You can always blame it on her.

There is, of course, Niemen, in Switzerland, and Horsschitt, in Germany... It all depends on what you mean by ‘love’.

My body had become that of an old liar, and my most spontaneous transports had begun to end in calculated maneuverings and delayed deliveries. It was no longer a question of self-esteem or pride; when I thought of breaking up with her, it was not to avoid some sort of discomfiture: it was a question of authenticity. I loved Laura too much to drag myself along on crutches in the wake of our love.

My hints had, undoubtedly and unintentionally, made her feel insecure, guilty, inadequate, afraid that she was losing whatever it was that turned me on; in short, it aroused all the self-doubt so readily awakened in women after thousands of years of servitude. Hence my zeal in denying the effects of time was abetted by Laura's complicity.

— When a man close to sixty decides to break with a young woman whom he loves, and who loves him, what would you call it?— Damned stupidity, sir.— Yes, damned stupidity; in other words, ‘good sense’.