where the writers are
I like this scene.

  

The scene is from my favorite author Alberto Moravia's novel 'The lie' in English or 'La'Attenzion' in Italian. I like it because of the frankness of author to accept the weakness of ill moments as it is,however transient or illusory it may be. Besides I like the long,paragraph sized  sentences with multiple comas. Novel is in form of a personal diary.

‘Baba’s mouth crushed it self against mine, lips parted and as it were turned inside out, like the open lips of a wound if pressed against a hard surface; then, with lips still parted in the same position, it started turning round inside my mouth, penetrating further and further as it turned, and then, still continuing its turning, penetrating movement, it opened yet wider, gaping like the gullet of a reptile, forming an empty, dark, warm, dry funnel whose edges, nevertheless, melted with saliva which wetted the chin and cheeks of both of us; were wishing to swallow me, and at the bottom of the funnel, which grew steadily larger, warmer, emptier and darker, was her hard, dry, pointed tongue, which every now and then came forward and then withdrew, with spasmodic swiftness. The kiss came to an end because suddenly, as though to deny us the protection and connivance of the darkness, the quit, yellow lamp came on, on the landing. We separated at once; Baba bent down towards the door, possibly in order to hide from me her face smeared with lipstick and wet with saliva.’

            In the very next chapter PROTAGONIST confessed that the incident he had described in last chapter was not genuine and what he is writing now is reality. In his own writing,

 

       ‘Afterwards I re read what I had written and then I understood the reason for my despair. It was directly suggested to me by the manner in which I had described the kiss, I had given Baba. I analyzed the long description of fifteen lines and found I had expressed, in almost every word, a feeling of repulsion, of fear and horror. Whereas in reality, both on my side and on Baba’s, the kiss had been a perfectly normal love kiss, lacking in restraint and full of sweetness almost to the point of insensibility and ecstasy.

         In other words, I certainly loved Baba; but at the source of my love for her, instead of a sincere, unutterable impulse, there was the idea of incest as a transgression and as nothing ness. This idea, or rather ideology, was just as non-genuine as that which had formerly caused me to love and to marry her mother Cora.’