âFor us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we âcanât swallow.â That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friendâs flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razorâs edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a donât-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else Iâm going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the otherâs appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesnât say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you wonât eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.â
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