"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. “He just wants to get laid, you know. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. Les Misérables, A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, The Last Days of Pompeii, The Marble Faun … Love stories! Until her arrival in Singapore, she had never read a novel. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. He hated himself a little for it.
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