There was no secret cave of the wood’s womb
Where we might kiss all day without a start
Of fear that meant to stay and must depart,
Nor any corner where the sea’s perfume
Might shelter love in some wave-carven tomb.
But Maytime shone in us; with words of art
I drew her down reluctant to my heart,
When night was silence and my bed the gloom.
So without sin we took strange sacrament,
Whose wine was kisses, and whose bread the flower
Of fast and fervent cleaving breast to breast.
As lily bend to lily we were bent,
Not as mere man to woman: all the dower
Of martyred Virgins crowned our dangerous quest.
Aleister Crowley, The Sixteenth Day in Alice: an Adultery
In this “Closed Museum or Hidden Library” are many strange volumes and curious objects
Alberto Manguel, The Library at Night [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
One to wake. Two to bind. Three—a miracle, a mystery. Is it not strange, do you think, that everything arranges itself into a ritual?
Benjanun Sriduangkaew, Winterglass [Amazon, Bookshop, Publisher, Local Library]
“How strange,” Juliana said. “I never would have thought the truth would make you angry.” Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find. I’m lucky. “I thought you’d be as pleased and excited as I am. It’s a misunderstanding, isn’t it?” She smiled, and after a pause Mrs. Abendsen managed to smile back.
Philip K Dick, The Man in the High Castle