So you're in this guy's apartment and you're looking at all these cheap paperbacks on his shelf, all written in the swinging sixties, and you pick one at random, and you see it's written in the sodding second person, like he's trying deperately to get you to sympathise with him in his sad perverted life or even to get remotely interested, but somehow you know that it's just not going to happen because even if you continue reading the next seventeen pages to the end of the sentence, it's still not going to make you think him any more ........