… as they delivered kick after kick, shove Islam up your ass, which is where it belongs, this one is for Salman Rushdie (an author neither happened to think was much good but whose mention seemed pertinent), this one is for the feminists in Paris (will you fucking stop, Norton was shouting), this one is for the feminists of New York (you’re going to kill him, shouted Norton), this one is for the ghost of Valerie Solanas, you son of a bitch, and on and on, until he was unconscious and bleeding from every orifice in the head, except the eyes.

Roberto Bolano - 2666, p. 74

This book is surprisingly hilarious in parts (wait for the context if you’re not there yet). I’ve laughed out loud/giggled out loud probably half a dozen times thus far.

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