From The Plague by Albert Camus:
If, by some chance, one of us tried to unburden himself or to say something about his feelings, the reply he got, whatever it might be, usually wounded him. And then it dawned on him that he and the man with him weren't talking about the same thing. For while he himself spoke from the depths of long days of brooding upon his personal distress, and the image he had tried to impart had been slowly shaped and proved in the fires of passion and regret, this meant nothing to the man to whom he was speaking who pictured a conventional emotion, a grief that is traded on the market place, mass-produced.
From A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens and though we continue to exclaim, "I do enjoy myself," or "I am horrified," we are insincere. "As far as I feel anything, it is enjoyment, horror," -- it's no more than that really, and a perfectly adjusted organism would be silent.