When we are jealous, we make up stories against ourselves. We work up our own feelings, we frighten ourselves.
A child loved too much, a child become the object of such intimacy that it dare not be allowed to live. Murderous Tenderness, Tender Murdurousness. Love turned inside out like a glove to reveal its ugly stitching.
He could imagine staring into the fly's eyes while its wings were being torn off: he was sure it wouldn't blink; perhaps it would not even see him. It was as though, for the duration of the act, its soul went into the female.
I have lost my place in my soul.
How does Coetzee know Dostoevsky like this? Or the dirty corners of our souls like Dostoevsky did?