‘Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm-heartedly, everything would come all right. It’s all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy.’ ‘But you don’t fuck me cold-heartedly,’ she protested. ‘I don’t want to fuck you at all. My heart’s as cold as cold potatoes just now.’ ‘Oh!’ she said, kissing him mockingly. ‘Let’s have them sautes.’ He laughed, and sat erect. ‘It’s a fact!’ he said. ‘Anything for a bit of warm-heartedness. But the women don’t like it. Even you don’t really like it. You like good, sharp, piercing cold-hearted fucking, and then pretending it’s all sugar. Where’s your tenderness for me? You’re as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm-hearted. You love fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and mysterious, just to flatter your own self-importance. Your own self-importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being together with a man.’ ‘But that’s what I’d say of you. Your own self-importance is everything to you.’ ‘Ay! Very well then!’ he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. ‘Let’s keep apart then. I’d rather die than do any more cold-hearted fucking.’ -- D.H. Lawrence Lady Chatterley's Lover