Yevgeny Zamyatin — We [375]

At the corner, through the white fog, blood—a slit, as with a sharp knife—her lips. … All women are lips, nothing but lips. Some pink, firmly round—a ring, a tender protection against the whole world. But these: a second ago they did not exist, and now—a knife slit—and the sweet blood will drip down. — Yevgeny Zamyatin, We, 375

Note

Reduction of a person to a single disquieting feature, establishing the predatory, knife-like edge of desire against the state’s smooth uniformity.