Late one night in Lima

At the moment I'm reading a book called Aguirre by Stephen Minta. It's one of those books where the author retraces the steps of someone famous; a sort of travel/history book. I came across this passage in the book, where the author is in a bar late one night in Lima:

Someone from the next table stood up and began to recite a drunken poem. A romantic, brooding piece, as far as I ould tell above the noise of the traffic. As it reached what might have been its climax, Gustavo waved in Jane's direction. "You don't like it?" he asked, as she raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. "It's too sentimental? But look, what is there for us except suffering and death? Without public emotion there is only private misery. It's like the English," he said, running his fingers absentmindedly through Jane's hair. "I know the English. They brought me up. They're like those giant fish. When they're wounded they go down very deep and die in the ocean where no one can see them."

I know the English too. Man hands on misery to man. And the capacity for other things.

This is the 200th post on this blog.