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From the extraordinary Hopeland by Ian McDonald:
Auberon Brightbourne strode onto the dance-floor. No hesitant, testing steps here. He must throw himself in. He swallowed the four-on-the-floor and the heat, the spinning lights, the intimidation of other skin in his personal space. He danced as late-sixties Irish nano-gentry must: flailing and awkward but without self-consciousness or irony. Irony is the murderer of honesty. Those men who could see him nodded, smiled and gave him space to spin on.
Seems like a perfect goal for my late sixties … to stride onto the dance-floor and dance without self-consciousness or irony.
