Was the drowned world itself, and the mysterious quest for the south which had possessed Hardman, no more than an impulse to suicide, an unconscious acceptance of the logic of his own devolutionary descent, the ultimate neuronic synthesis of his own archaeopsychic zero?
If this isn't the finest line in the English language, from JG Ballard's Drowned World, then there is pure powdered gold somewhere out there waiting to be discovered on the wing of a bird of paradise.
But it is.
So we can all relax. It's already been written.