'No, no!' she cried, '...or yet...' She reflected. 'I no longer understand myself,' she went on, 'but I must confess something. You have corrupted my imagination, my blood is up. I am sharing the enthusiasm with which you speak of a Pompadour, of a Catherine the Second and all the other egoistic, frivolous and cruel women; this excites me, enters into my soul, and urges me to become like these women, who, despite their vileness, were as long as they lived adored with servility and went on working miracles in the tomb. In short, make me a despot in a small way; a sort of household Pompadour.'
-- Venus in Furs, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch