For Edward, there existed only one measure of success, the objective perfection of finely wrought imitation; one form, one course, one rule. So burned the passion of romance; one woman, one love, one way. But speaking revealed the path had frayed, the magic revealed as a vulgar sleight of hand. For she, his woman, his distant love approached near, a reconciliation he had clearly come to dread, an imitation that couldn’t bear so much day to day reality. He described his success, thin picked acoustic guitar, imitating some crisp clean guitar part so perfectly that the artist’s own mother wouldn’t have detected the difference. I felt sure Edward taught his son his obsession with copying.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs