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I hate a book. I do not use the word hate lightly at all. I hated it because every time i read a page when i was in love, it exposed the ridiculousness of it all. If there is one book which caught the destructive emotion in all its exquisite glory and its foolhardiness, it is ‘The End of an Affair’ by that old cunning master of literature Graham Greene, a man who could be one’s own personal devil, and it is essential you should never get anywhere near this book. Not when you are not in love, not when you aren’t, not even when something has hardened in you but it isn’t your dick but something deep inside you, something which is unlikely again to ever go limp, a crystal loses coccoon that encrusts that malaise and keeps it away from infecting your day and your life.

Greene gets it. The highs –

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The delusions –

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The loss of lust replaced by something darker –

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The constant madness of a mind without a condom –

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The mind turning upon itself-

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The object of the obsession trying to knock sense by this immortal line –

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This line would mean two totally different things if said by one in introspection or another in conversation, wouldn’t it?

And finally – the self destructive end –

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Every line of the book is destructively quotable. Such as the scene when he speaks to us while sitting with her in a taxi – telling us ala Kevin Spacey – My hand on her leg the entire journey was a promise, and i had no intention of keeping that promise. 

The end of the affair is a thinking man’s Nicholas Sparks, a tragic dissection of the most destructive emotion known to mankind.

I hate it.

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