That’s what men are like, sir: two-faced: they cannot love unless they love themselves. Watch your neighbours when there happens to be a death in the building. They were sleeping through their little lives and then, for example, the concierge dies. All at once, they’re wide awake, quivering, asking for news, feeling sorry. A death is announced and at last the curtain goes up. They need tragedy; after all, it’s their little moment of transcendence, their aperitif.
