Sublime

a furry, flattened body with a red/gray ejaculation of blood and brains having burst from his little exploded head. To Kugel, chipmunks looked as if they’d died of a good idea;

C’était un roman sans intrigue, avec un seul personnage, la simple étude psychologique d’un jeune Parisien qui occupait sa vie en essayant de réaliser, au dix-neuvième siècle, toutes les passions et les modes de penser des autres siècles, et de résumer en lui les états d’esprit par lequel le monde avait passé, aimant pour leur simple artificialité

The old man looks out at the smears of rain vibrating on the window glass. His smile fades. “But Arthur, there is hope.” The great author quietly says:

‘I’m uncommonly glad to be here – I was never so proud and happy in my life – never so happy, you know.’ This was a bold figure of speech, but not exactly the right thing; for, unhappily, the pat opening had slipped away – even couplets from Pope may be but ‘fallings from us, vanishings’,215 when fear clutches us, and a glass of sherry is hurrying

Only Arturo Caminada wept. Openly. Manly. For forty years he had served you as driver, handyman, man's man, as lover long ago for Gala, the wife you loved beyond the distance of touch or desire. For forty years he answered your call only to be omitted from the will so cleverly written to confuse and cretinize. A surrealist gesture.