'You mean there must be something physical too? I suppose there is, but it's not exactly a consuming passion with any of us. It's just a relaxed, cheerful sort of thing, like being warm in bed. You're too confortable to bother about moving for the sake of some other pleasure.'

'It started during those first months we had alone together - after Hugh went abroad. It was the one way of escaping from everything - a sort of unholy priesthole of being animals to one another. We could become little furry creatures with little furry brains. Full of dumb, uncomplicated affection for each other. Playful, careless creatures in their own cosy zoo for two. A silly symphony for people who couldn't bear the pain of being human beings any longer. And now, even they are dead, poor little silly animals. They were all love, and no brains.'

'How could I have thought I could get away with it! He wants one world and I want another, and lying in that bed won't ever change it!.... Oh, I'm not stepping aside to let you come back. You can do what you like. Frankly, I think you'd be a fool- but that's your own business. I think I've given you enough advice.'
'But he- he'll have no one.'
'Oh, my dear, he'll find somebody.'

'It's no good trying to fool yourself about love. You can't fall into it like a soft job, without dirtying up your hands. It takes muscle and guts. And if you can't bear the thought of messing up your nice, clean soul you'd better give up the whole idea of life, and become a saint. Because you'll never make it as a human being.'


-- Look back in Anger, by John Osborne.