The fire of our love, which was like a blowtorch the first time we met, is now a burning forest, leaping rivers and consuming landscapes.

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“A remarkable cycle of novels … The books are written with an utterly idiosyncratic combination of emotional precision, crystalline observation, and black humor, as if one of Evelyn Waugh’s wicked satires about British aristos had been mashed up with a searing memoir of abuse and addiction, and injected with Proustian meditations on the workings of memory and time.” —Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

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