Perhaps it was these sad colours, or perhaps it was the wan, exhausted light of the afternoon sun, drained of its strength by the haze: there was something indifferent, lifeless, and mechanical about objects and human beings here, as though they were all part of a scene in a puppet-theatre.
There was a lot of rereading for me (Infinite Jest, V, Mao II, Brave New World, Naked Lunch, Lord of Flies, The Trial, Swann’s Way, Crime and Punishment) and other side-stuff to do (a thesis on IP and philosophy courses) but still I managed to finally sink my teeth into a few great books. Here are short highlights:
<read on —>
There’s something dark in me, deep under all my thoughts, something I can’t measure out with thoughts, a sort of life that can’t be expressed in words and which is my life, all the same.
You see this book. Here is philosophy. It treats of the grounds determining our actions.
And if you could fathom this, if you could feel your way into the
depths of this, you would come up against nothing but just such principles,
which are inherent in the nature of thought and do in fact determine everything,
although they themselves cannot be understood immediately and without
In the evening you know you’ve lived another day, you’ve learnt this and that, you’ve kept up with the time-table, but still, you’re empty-inwardly, I mean. Right inside, you’re still hungry, so to speak.