Sebastian, Sebastian Faulks, I have read other of your books, Birdsong, Human Traces, Charlotte Gray, Engleby, others, and yes, you fail, you just cannot become frivolous. Nor sexy. One just does not read your books. No, one sweats your books. One tends to tie an own artery to your sentences and blood follows like a rivulet. Somewhere there is an ocean murmuring. And one hopes, with a heart, that the possible meeting will ease existential anxiety, but no, you are no saintly savior. You are a god riding the devil’s horse. And telling the un-metaphysical truth. Using sentences, paragraphs, to protest the pain-fields of the human mind, holding hands with its soul, to meet the pure of a human day-break.
