Vice is an innate companion of men since times immemorial, a staunch acquaintance we carry along for most of our lives more or less consciously and scarcely ever treat as a natural factor in the social process that gave modern society from reasons imbued with prejudice. Except vice had not taken a conceptual form until morals began to rearrange the first civilizations in a proceeding quite similar to how the idea o beauty was shaped by our experience of the antagonist, of ugliness. Exactly how our view of life emerges with the acknowledgement of our imminent demise.
Alas, only under Death’s looming presence can one crack through one’s preconceived notions and grant personal values to such abstract terms as vice. Because, perchance, we yield to a congenital need to discover us and diligently investigate what our potential conceals in the event that we may serendipitously stumble upon an antidote under the form of immortality.
This is, at least, what I set out to explore across my first English novel (or, rather, novella) which puts forth a character whose conscience is decimated by the advent of his bereavement, a man dipped in gold, a hedonistic prodigy mediocrity terrifies the most, a playboy with substance and a convict of his own brilliance that fails in his luxurious and sensual attempts to forget he has chosen his death.
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