What things we do, he whispered in shame, such shame, what things we men do. Across the great clutch of history there lay in every corner cinders of some chauvinist sacrament. All will be rent to ruin beneath our banners, he thought.
“A hippopotamus, in the bush, points out a zebra to another hippopotamus: “You see,” he says, “now that’s formalism.””
Alain Robbe-Grillet
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