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The only advice I can offer, should you wake up vertiginously in a strange flat, with a thoroughly installed hangover, without any recollection of how you got there, with the police sledgehammering down the door to the accompaniment of excited dogs, while you are surrounded by bales of lavishly-produced magazines featuring children in adult acts, the only advice I can offer is to try to be good humoured and polite.
That's superb. Makes me want to hunt down the book immediately.
You are a man writing for men. End of Story.
~LV
It's a depressing reality.
Not one sentence, I know, but each gains strength from the others, and it is one of my very favourite ends to a book. It is especially powerful in the whole context, since the rest of the novel conspicuously avoids rich description almost like Hemingway - form mirroring content. Anyway - from The Road, Cormac McCarthy:
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."