Tu marches sur la côte Atlantique. Dandy, chapeau melon, canne à la main, petite moustache noire dessinée au feutre. Tu fais des visites pittoresques et fictive le long des plages et des falaises. Il y a un lac particulièrement vert et une émeraude centenaire et vivante git dans ses profondeurs.

En cette journée passablement épuisante, la vue d’un chien tacheté loup au sortir du métro te réveille et t’apaise.

Oedipa sat, feeling as alone as she ever had, now the only woman, she saw, in a room full of drunken male homosexuals. Story of my life, she thought, Mucho won’t talk to me, Hilarius won’t listen, Clerk Maxwell didn’t even look at me, and this group, God knows. Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you. She gauged the spectrum of feeling out there as running from really violent hate (an Indian-looking kid hardly out of his teens, with frosted shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears and pointed cowboy boots) to dry speculation (a hornrimmed SS type who stared at her legs, trying to figure out if she was in drag), none of which could do her any good. So she got up after awhile and left The Greek Way, and entered the city again, the infected city.

Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49