Sometimes in the recording of a bald sexual incident great significance adheres. Sometimes the sexual becomes a writhing. Sometimes it is a fresco hidden in a sacred cave where one may sit and contemplate on things of the spirit. There is nothing I can possible prohibit myself from doing in the realm of sex. It is a world unto itself and a morsel of it may be just as destructive as a ton of it. It is a cold fire which burns in us like the sun. It is never dead.*

(From Arthur Miller’s On Writing.)