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Just finished "Me and You" by Margaret Diehl, a novel I first read back in college, a super sensual (in both senses of the word) story of an alcoholic painter woman. A few bits I found in it that I remembered, but not their source:

She didn't worry about my drinking in those days. She thought I was celebrating. (As the sweet, buck-toothed matron at the London drunk tank said, "What were you celebrating then, love? What were you celebrating?")

Also, this one, a bit more sensual, about the main character's older lover:

Jack knelt above me, his stomach muscles quivering. The light was behind him, his body dark. I looked at it dreamily, that bulk and tension. And, from shame, my vision was acute. I saw the pride of his stomach, that self-pleasing defense. I saw his penis's desire not only to carry the seed but to appear most magnificent, to best in power the muscular legs that carry the man, that stride the earth. Such grandiosity, such insecurity, often produce a fatal charm. Insistence seduces as endurance prevails. I let him inside.

The book is almost stunning in its sensuality, how it captures certain tableaus. It's funny coming back to a book that you don't remember distinctly, but remember as influential in your own former writing.

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I'm on GI Joe's special sleep squad

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Office Debate: If actions speak louder than words, why is the pen mightier than the sword?

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The English language is a belief in the human being and his or her abilities, despite anything. It is a belief that a plan, further work, and results are connected among themselves in reality and not simply in illusion.