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.
Great quotes ... the writing of that time period really seemed to capture this feeling a lot. Another one I really, really like was written a bit later (in the 1940s), *Brideshead Revisited*.
I really like the books that talk about the blah-ness of life.
Jose Saramago is the best, though (in my most humble of opinions, given how little modern fiction I read).
Posted by: h sofia | February 20, 2006 at 08:37 PM
The Plague is a great book. I have reread it every eight years or so and its always fresh and relevant.
Posted by: slickdpdx | February 21, 2006 at 11:54 AM