WHAT a strange man, what a strange book. A mysticism of muscle? An obsessive, almost uncanny concern with the union of beauty, eroticism, and death? Dear baby Jesus, this is for me. I will definitely be picking up one of his novels—shit, read this:

If my self was my dwelling, then my body resembled an orchard that surrounded it. I could
either cultivate that orchard to its capacity or leave it for the weeds to run riot in. I was free to
choose, but the freedom was not as obvious as it might seem. Many people, indeed, go so far
as to refer to the orchards of their dwellings as “destiny.”

Just don't forget he's a fascist.