The ugly fact is books are made out of books, the novel depends for its life on the novels that have been written.

“He stood at the window of the empty cafe and watched the activites in the squar…”

“He looked like he was studying something small in the grass.”

“He lay on his back in his blankets and looked our where the quartermoon lay coc…”

“Suttree stood among the screaming leaves and called the lightning down. It crac…”