. . . She entered the Black Cross. She entered the pub and its murk. She felt the place skip a beat as the door closed behind her, but she had been expecting that. Indeed, it would be a bad day (and that day would never come) when she entered a men's room, a teeming toilet such as this and turned no head, caused no groans or whispers. She walked straight to the bar, lifted her veil with both hands, like a bride, surveyed the main actors of the scene, and immediately she knew, with pain, with gravid arrest, with intense recognition, the she had found him, her murderer . . .
(excerpted from London Fields by Martin Amis)
To pick up this or another tawdry book, like Nick Cave's And the Ass Saw the Angel or Happy Baby by Stephen Elliott, just drop by our library and check out the displays on the first and second floors. They're so filthy, you'll want to bleach your teeth. Or your soul.
Feel free to email me, and I'll send you the complete list.
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