it was sort of refreshing reading a book like this. despite the fact that it was haunting and showcased a kind of nihilistic inhumanity, it was written in a way that you don't see very often lately. not only the immaculate word choice and phrase crafting, but the style as internally cerebral was unlike any other book in the last maybe twenty years.
when i was in elementary school, the principal was fond of giving this one particular speech about his own childhood. he was in the locker room with a bunch of rowdy boys who were rough-housing, twisting towels and whipping them at other boys when suddenly a high-pitched howl stopped the fun. one of the boys (we all privately assumed it was our principal) had been hit in genitals, ripping off a testicle.
what was the point of my principal telling us this story? what is Quentin Crisp's point? i won't conjecture to guess here, but let me just say both stories will haunt me for a long time. ( )