Apathy Jack writes:
Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
I swear to you that to think too much is a disease, a real, actual disease. For ordinary human life it would be more than sufficient to possess ordinary human intellectual activity, that is to say, half or quarter as much as falls to the lot of an educated man in our unhappy nineteenth century, and especially one having the misfortune to live in St.Petersburg, the most abstract and intentional city in the whole round world.
It’s a bit of a worry how much of myself I see in the narrator of this one – especially as he is a wholly unsympathetic character. I’ve got to admit that I winced when I read: “I had grown so unused to ‘real life’ that I could hardly breathe for the oppressiveness of it.” Yes, I know it’s emo, and I know I need to grow some coping mechanisms, but, hell, that can’t be a surprise to anyone reading any of my posts, can it...?