The Human Stain (The American Trilogy, #3)

by Philip Roth

At seventy-one you’re not the high-spirited, horny brute you were at twenty-six, of course. But the remnants of the brute, the remnants of the natural thing—he is in touch now with the remnants.

I did no more than find a friend, and all the world’s malice came rushing in.

The father leading the way, the mother feeding the love. The old one-two.

Been waiting for the next thing to happen all her life. It always does.