Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. “You’d have to think how to get in between his bones. He was followed by a great pile of black organs, hers, her female parts. They tried to read illustrated papers in an unconcerned manner and with forced attention, lest they should catch the leaping exultation in each other’s eyes. I’m not a lovesick boy.
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