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Then there was a picture of Luc so mythically beautiful that my mouth went dry and then I found I was flooded with a little sob. He was looking through me, eyes narrowed but translucent in sunshine, sea-wet hair pushed oddly, darkly back, lips apart but firm, as if trying out his own name, naked to the bottom edge of the photograph, just below the navel, and his long hands stretched wide, some ordinary gesture, caught half-way through so that he looked like Nijinsky resting in the air. Alan Hollinghurst, The Folding Star

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