I found the following
words quite interesting given the
post I made yesterday:
'In my memoir I have exposed myself – not just sexually but emotionally. I've shown myself as weak, sometimes naive, and written about sexual rejection. A reviewer says she finds my emotional candour more shocking than the sex. I find this fascinating. The British are very squeamish about emotions too. Is owning up to rejection a bigger taboo than sex? I have written from the point of view of making what I thought was a colossal error: sex, I say, ruined my life. We have been given a formula for a "valid" relationship: it must combine sexual and platonic love. If a relationship isn't sexual, it isn't the real thing.
Yet love affairs come in every size and shape. Whether a person lives in passionate celibacy with another, or in a blaze of erotic desire with someone they find annoying, there are hundreds of flavours and mixtures of love. I made myself unhappy measuring my love against a given norm. The truth is, we make ourselves happy in among a wide variety of loves; all count.'
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