4.5 stars rounded up.
p 15: The girl suddenly stood up. Gracefully, athletically. The sun drenched her bare back and painted two tiny shadows around a pair of dimples quite low along the spine. She stretched and turned towards us. She loomed against the glowing sky and her reflecting glasses seemed to burn through me with black rays.
p 36: Her very name, the melodious combination of Lenka and Silver, seemed perfection. The quintessence of lyrical nostalgia. I was perfectly aware that I was succumbing to an illusion - after all, I wasn't exactly an adolescent. But I didn't care. Illusion - how beautiful you are! Linger yet a while!
p 41: I had long ago solved the problem of the essence of poetry. I knew that poetry was a temporary manifestation of psychophysiologic development, characteristic of the borderline between puberty and adulthood. Normal people bother about poetry only as long as they are virgins, in a sexual as well as a general sense of the term. When a person is young and green, he resents the fact that the world is full of injustice and hypocrisy, and he longs for beautiful girls, adventure, and all sorts of nonsense. Eventually all of this passes, the longing for girls is cooled by taking St Paul's advice (better to marry than burn) and by going to the movies; the longing for adventure is satisfied by detective stories and football. The handful of individuals who remain virgins in the non-sexual sense turn into real poets. And a certain number of others, whom the world has deprived of all forms of virginity, turn into male or female whores. It had long been clear to me, without undue bitterness, that I belonged to this last group, though not to its extreme wing, perhaps.
p 122: I crouched low in my seat and let my eyes wander over the faces around me and along the sections on the other side of the [boxing] ring. On that far side, the faces merged into a speckled backdrop; human countenances were transforming into nothing but black eyes and screaming mouths. Faces closer to me were carved into ritual masks by the razor-sharp klieg lights. The wooden structure gave off a musty smell, the smell of a forest with spit, urine, cigarette butts, and greasy paper. The crowd, responding to the age-old instinct of the arena, produced an almost unbearable din.
p 186: My indifference kept me from identifying with this editorial collective which had witnessed so many apotheoses and so many executions. I watched the proceedings like a disinterested spectator, and sub specie actermitatis my colleagues began to seem ridiculous and their petty actions incomprehensible. What were the motives for their despicable plottings and maneuverings? That ephemeral vanity called career, position? Comforts and pleasures? Fear? Jealousy? Surely such trivial lures would be pitifully out of keeping with the veneration accorded to these new, post-religious secular saints by the general public, a public insufficiently informed as always. Or were these men inspired by a naive, dogmatic faith? Though I was so much younger, less educated, and much more insignificant than they, I found such faith quite unacceptable because of its absurd dialectics of immaculate conception and black sin. Outwardly I professed orthodoxy, of course; the old fuckup with Kocour's manifesto had taught me a lesson. But with me all this was but a ritual, and it was hard for me to imagine that my colleagues might be moved by a real, deep belief springing from the heart and from the brain. It seemed to me preposterous to assume that the ridiculous figures sitting before me had solved the dichotomy of mind and heart that had baffled a host of spiritual giants, including the Doctor Angelicus himself.