In those days, a tattoo was still a souvenir – a keepsake to mark a journey, the love of your life, a heartbreak, a port of call. The body was like a photo album; the tattoos themselves didn't have to be good photographs. Indeed, they may not have been very artistic or aesthetically pleasing, but they weren't ugly – not intentionally. And the old tattos were always sentimental; you didn't mark yourself for life if you weren't sentimental.
John Irving, Until I Find You, págs, 74/75 (Random House)
