"Mr. Trench went out to look for his either cylinder, into the blazing Mexican sun and the bleaching dust. A few vultures looked down from the roof with shabby indifference: he wasn't carrion yet. A faint feeling of rebellion stirred in Mr. Trench's heart, and he wrenched up a piece of the road with splintering finger-nails and tossed it feebly towards them. One rose and flapped across the town: over the tiny plaza, over the bust of an ex-president, ex-general, ex-human being, over the two stalls which sold mineral water, towards the river and the sea." Part 1, Chapter 2: The Port, p. 7.

"Let me be caught soon...let me be caught.' He had tried to escape, but he was like the king of a West African tribe, the slave of his people, who may not even lie down in case the winds should fail." Part 1, Chapter 1: The Port...