In a very real sense, the writer writes in order to teach himself, to understand himself, to satisfy himself; the publishing of his ideas, though it brings gratifications, is a curious anti-climax.
Slowly, but very deliberately, the brooding edifice of seduction , creaking and incongruous, came into being, a vast Heath Robinson mechanism, dually controlled by them and lumbering gloomily down vistas of triteness. With a sort of heavy-fisted dexterity the mutually adapted emotions of each of them became synchronized, until the unavoidable anti-climax was at hand.Anthony Powell, in Lisa Colletta Dark Humor and Social Satire in the Modern British Novel, Palgrave Macmillan, 1 October 2003, p.121
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