When you’re exhausted and just want to crash and not deal with anyone and you’ve got a big, fluffy, comfortable bed with fresh sheets and blankets all to yourself.
At some point, I learned something important: that being ill could dissolve the uncompromising infrastructure of your young life like so many bad dreams. Instantaneously, sympathy! Others to do for you what normally you were left alone to manage! And most importantly, liberty from obligation.
I’m not looking for the right one: they’re all right in their way. No, I don’t want what’s right: I want the pleasure, the delight, the delirium of all those different ways. Each thinker gives me a different way of making sense — and the more I read, the more I digest them, the more this multiplicity plays through my head, through my eyes, through my blood and guts.
Hunger, despite it’s bleak subject, is often a comical novel. The narrator expresses a lot of indignation … But what is this indignation directed towards? The world? The worst thing is that there’s nothing really to direct it towards – except perhaps our own nature, which only inspires more indignation.