From The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes:
Some of the freckles I once loved are now closer to liver spots. But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person, and find them still. The same eyes that were in the same head when we first met, slept together, married, honeymooned, joint-mortgaged, shopped, cooked and holidayed, loved one another and had a child together.From "Lucking Out" by James Wolcott:
nor do I want to deceive myself sentimentally about something that wasn’t even true at the time—love of the old school, and so on. But if nostalgia means the powerful recollection of strong emotions—and a regret that such feelings are no longer present in our lives—then I plead guilty.
“There’s something unsubtle in the LA psyche,” Valentine observes in New York Rocker. “Maybe it’s the perpetual sunshine, or maybe it’s living in a bunch of suburbs looking for a city. But the New York cool of Patti Smith, Television and Richard Hell didn’t take. Safety pins, leather, chains and vomit—the whole UK thing—did.”
Porn has all the attributes of junk, wrote Norman Mailer, and I interpreted his use of “junk” not simply as a synonym for trash but as a slang term for heroin and any other hook-sinking hijacker of body and soul...Punk and porn both regarded the body as unconsecrated meat, a punching bag for blows inflicted and self-inflicted, pain being the price of admission into the sideshow. Punk, however, sought transcendence from a launchpad of sound, a release from bondage; porn operated under a lower ceiling, its repetitions feeding on themselves, a cycle of recurrence in which those who didn’t become jaded simply became affectless, devoid, not much caring what was done to them, drugs and disassociation providing cloud protection. It wasn’t too long before they looked on camera the way many punks looked offstage—slugged.