A novel is necessarily long and intricate, so, at some point in its composition, its author is bound to become exhausted and disenchanted.
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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A built-in, shockproof shit detector will exclude "perfect" breasts from your work, but it is powerless to call spirits from the vasty deep.
End of conversation
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