Ha—well, I read a wide variety and the book in question just won a big award, so I wasn't exactly slumming it. But point taken.
This heightened sensitivity to missteps is a curious faculty. We call it "taste," and we know it when we see it. But it remains mysterious.
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Especially mysterious, of course, are those persons whose taste never errs. Like Chopin. Not a single garish note in his entire output.
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I'm pretty sure you'll search in vain through the whole of Ishiguro's output for so much as a single fleeting mention of "perfect" breasts.
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