“Throughout the course of the day, Bobby Tom's irritation over his artificially oiled and dirt-smeared chest and his unzipped jeans had flared into righteous indignation. They were treating him like a sex object! It was damned demeaning, that's what it was, being reduced to a set of oil pecs and a tight ass. Shit. A dozen years in the NFL, and this was what it had all come down to. Pecs and ass.”

“Then Tom wiggled his pecs at me and dove into the lake.”

“Dinner was a disaster. Brent introduced himself while staring at my bulge, and I was glad to be shown to our table so that we were seated with a table between us, forcing him to look me in the eye. Apparently, my eyes have moved down to my pecs, though, as that's where he decided to fix his attention throughout dinner.”

“Annamaria had preferred oil rather than electric lamps. She said that sunshine grows plants, the plants express essential oils, and years later those oils fire the lamps - giving back 'the light of the other days'.”

“Oil painting did to appearances what capital did to social relations. It reduced everything to the equality of objects. Everything became exchangeable because everything became a commodity.”

“His wife had been wild about him at first; she had treated him with an amorous servility that had turned him against her all the more. Vivacious, effusive, and very loving in the early days, over the years she had, like a stale wine that turns to vinegar, grown ill-humoured, waspish, and nervy.”