This book by John Braine, Room at the Top, a book with a bullet, if one considers the hyperbole all over the cover, both inside and out, shows evidence, in any case, of having perhaps manifested a certain preference for, um, well, consider the following passage...

"I'm all twisted," she said. "This is a horribly moral kind of car."

We'll go outside," I said hoarsely. She kissed my hands. "They're beautiful," she said. "Big and red and brutal... Will you keep me warm?"

I remember those words especially.

which might suggest a certain ruthless pride in a form more primitive, more primeval and bleak.