Our lies reveal as much about us as our truths. — J. M. Coetzee

But truth is not spoken in anger. Truth is spoken, if it ever comes to be spoken, in love.

Can desire grow out of admiration, or are the two quite distinct species? What would it be like to lie side by side, naked, breast to breast, with a woman one principally admires?

Why does love, even such love as he claims to practise, need the spectacle of beauty to bring it to life? What, in the abstract, do shapely legs have to do with love, or for that matter with desire? Or is that just the nature of nature, about which one does not ask questions?