"You know the score, Prince Hubertus, a chinwag between two equals might result in one finding that ideas have entered his mind unbidden, like a grain of sand the skin, resulting in the psychological equivalent of a sand-boil, and the mental distress can then lead one to a state of inanition, ennui, the paralysis of analysis – think too much about something and it's like a gesamtkunstwerk in which the different forms and materials so overwhelm us that we don't, in the end, even know what it is!" and Hubertus gazed at the bland face of Heinrich Himmler and wondered what it would take to hurt him – a hard punch on the nose? a kick to the genitals? or perhaps gouge out his eyes? but then decided that just to bend his pinky back until it felt like it might break, because although Hubertus knew that he, himself, could not take pain of the mildest kind, he recognised that this man was no stronger than himself, no more stoic, no braver: it takes a coward to know one, was his conclusion, so in the end he said: "as in Schwitters Merzbild creations? absolutely Reichsführer, spot on!" and was pleased to see that the Head of the SS didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, but would never admit it, could not – for his pride required that he held all the cards, even in this stupid conversation they were having; and just across the Square, in the Pink Van, J Alfred Prufrock and Gertie Mountcastle – the others were still abed in their hotel – were listening in and trusting that the Prince would manage to plant to bug he had in his pocket!