This isn’t a particularly alarming volume; few are the nightmare shags, the bleeding avocados. It’s more instructive as a primer for things to come. The book is dated 1965, which is just when things start to seriously run off the rails. You can smell the new stuff coming; you can’t wave away the dead stink of 2000 years of history, reaching its final exhausted conclusion. The book has a few tasteful scenes, and even some spiffy rooms that would be prized today for their jet-age cool.

But, of course, we’re more interested in the grotesqueries, eh? Of course.