"W. and I never think about our deaths or anything like that. That would be pure melodrama. Besides, if we died, others would come along to replace us. Our position is structural, we’ve always been convinced of that. We’re only signs or syndromes of some great collapse, and our deaths will be no more significant than those of summer flies in empty rooms."
If that doesn't make you laugh then perhaps Spurious isn't for you. Or maybe it only made me laugh because I was by then attuned to the book's brilliant style, where the old friends comedy and tragedy don't so much rub shoulders and share bodily fluids. If you're reading this at all other than to check the voter count for the Not the Booker Prize, then I urge you to stop reading and read Spurious instead.
“‘Go on, tell me,’ says W., getting excited. ‘How fat are you now?’”
John Self, Not the Booker review
