Maugham argued that novels must be flawed, because writing them calls for more prolonged concentration that we can muster: even Homer nods.
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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But even more mysterious than the absence of flaws in the work of an artist of unerring taste is the abundance of breathtaking wonders.
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