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"And the crazy part of it was even if you were *clever*, even if you spent your adolescence reading John Donne and Shaw, even if you studied history or zoology or physics and hoped to spend your life pursuing some difficult and challenging career, you *still* had a mind full of all the soupy longings that every high school girl was awash in...Underneath it all you longed to be annihilated by love, to be swept off your feet, to be filled up by a giant prick spouting sperm, soapsuds, silks and satins, and, of course, money."
--Erica Jong
Never have I been after money--indeed I expect, in a complacently resigned way, always to have little of it. But who among us is not immersed in these flimsy dreams, sprung from velveteen cocoons?--dreams that descend upon the mind like ethereal hallucinogens, possessing it wholly and insuperably, yet without anything rational to sustain them. And yet, paradoxically, it seems the very delicacy of such dreams that allows their perpetuity. Wilting beneath the heat of rigid, conscious thought, they retreat into the clandestine cushions of the subconscious, where they ensconce deeply and intangibly in that very template of self. Undetected, unannounced, these impossible dreams--of wings one will never flap or coins one will never know--hover over our days, allowing us to harbor that infinite self-delusion that our lives are monumental, at the least, in their sprawling potentiality.
--Erica Jong
Never have I been after money--indeed I expect, in a complacently resigned way, always to have little of it. But who among us is not immersed in these flimsy dreams, sprung from velveteen cocoons?--dreams that descend upon the mind like ethereal hallucinogens, possessing it wholly and insuperably, yet without anything rational to sustain them. And yet, paradoxically, it seems the very delicacy of such dreams that allows their perpetuity. Wilting beneath the heat of rigid, conscious thought, they retreat into the clandestine cushions of the subconscious, where they ensconce deeply and intangibly in that very template of self. Undetected, unannounced, these impossible dreams--of wings one will never flap or coins one will never know--hover over our days, allowing us to harbor that infinite self-delusion that our lives are monumental, at the least, in their sprawling potentiality.