Jag fick skriva om den här recensionen, efter att på något obegripligt sätt ha missat att huvudpersonen är impotent (och begripit det först när jag läst på om boken). Det är det hela boken handlar om. All dekadens, all sprit, all ytlighet är ersättning för det andra, trasiga människors substitut. Så jag tar tillbaks det jag skrev, att den skulle påminna om den där sopan Kerouac.
This was Brett, that I had felt like crying about. Then I thought of her walking up the street and stepping into the car, as I had last seen her, and of course in a little while I felt like hell again. It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.
Why I felt that impulse to devil him I do not know. Of course I do know. I was blind, unforgivingly jealous of what had happened to him. The fact that I took it as a matter of course did not alter that any. I certainly did hate him. I do not think I every really hated him until he had that little spell of superiority at lunch- that and when he went through all that barbering.
Helt i linje med hans vanliga ”he was a damn fine nigger”:
”No, listen, Jake. Brett’s gone off with men. But they weren’t ever Jews, and they didn’t come and hang about afterward.”