What fun, what a mirror—both good and bad.
Brooding teen boy obsesses (in a writerly way) over girl named Rachel while studying for entrance to university. Pet recommends!

Bonus! I have netflixed the film based on the book and your Jolly James Spader is in it! Perfection.

Quotes: (and, admittedly some of them are meaningless, I just like how he strings words together)

London is where people go in order to come back from it sadder and wiser.

I am in my own appearance if anything rather oppressively Caucasian.

To my right, dentures clicking like castanets, an old man chopped through a hot-dog at insect speed.

I felt mournful, squelchy.

I wanted to ask my host if there were perhaps any broom-cupboards or disused lavatories he wouldn’t mind me locking myself into until the party was over.

Like most people, I feel ambiguous guilt for my inferiors, ambiguous envy for my superiors, and mandatory low-spirits about the whole system itself.

Thus I maintained a tripartite sexual application in the contrapuntal patterns.

One of the troubles with being over-articulate, with having a vocabulary more refined than your emotions, is that every turn in the conversation, every switch of posture, opens up an estate of verbal avenues with a myriad side-turnings and cul-de-sacs—and there are no signposts but your own sincerity and good taste, and I’ve never had much of either.