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Back on the métro platform. There's a lady fatter than I am, my passive double, a
sorrowful look in her eye, resigned to her lard, her dress too short now and riding
up over her jiggling thighs, so ashamed at being different from everyone else.
An expression she bestows on young people when she finds them pleasing to
look at. It's true that deep within the rock crystal of his eyes there's a disquietingly
steady gaze that calls to mind the savagery of a wolf. But the comparison ends ...
“I don't need a mirror. I look at myself quite enough. In fact, that's my main
occupation. I know who I am, what I look like, and the effect I produce. It's all
planned, calculated, willed." The words burst out of me, fueled by an
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LibraryThing ReviewUser Review - kaxxie - LibraryThing
Jacket description: "An international sensation from the moment of its first publication in France, Sweet Death is a novel of heartstopping intensity, black humor, and passion not easily forgotten. A ... Read full review