He would imagine this creature in moments of corporal distress and thus calm his desires with unappetizing hallucinations; but the procedure which had formerly been very effective when he desired a woman and could not have her now failed utterly.

He somehow could not imagine his unknown in quest of bismuth or of linen.

He could not see her otherwise than rebellious, melancholy, dizzy with desire, kindling him with her eyes, inflaming him with her pale hands.
And his sensual resurrection was incredible--an aberrated Dog Star flaming in a physical November, at a spiritual All Hallows.

Tranquil, dried up, safe from crises, without veritable desires, almost impotent, or rather completely forgetful of sex for months at a time, he was suddenly roused--and for an unreality!--by the mystery of mad letters.
"Enough!" he cried, smiting the table a jarring blow.
He clapped on his hat and went out, slamming the door behind him.
"I know how to make my imagination behave!" and he rushed over to the Latin Quarter to see a prostitute he knew.

"I have been a good boy too long," he murmured as he hurried down the street.