Yes, how gravely he had underestimated it. How very gravely he had underestimated life. His own he had hated, and had wished away; but see how long it was taking to absent itself - and with what helpless grief was he watching it go, imperturbable in its beauty and its power.Even as his flesh fried and his blood boiled, there was life, kissing its fingertips. Then it echoed out, and ended.
The Observer reprints a Martin Amis piece that originally appeared in The New Yorker last April. All speculation, of course; but that is the fiction writer's task, to propose a coherent internal psychology.
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