The Swimming-Pool Library

by Alan Hollinghurst

When one is beyond love, where does pleasure lie? What does one do, seeing the lustful, disrespectful world going about its business, the young up one another’s arse? Was there ever an end to it, this irresistible, normal, subnormal craving for sex? Or did it go tauntingly on?

I suppose this may be the thematic crux of Hollinghurst's novel? (shoulder shrug). Since the vast majority of sex is heterosexual fornication and necessary for perpetuating the human race down through the ages, I'm inclined to believe there's nothing too much remarkable in this statement.