Sometimes I feel like I have lived for a million years. Nothing impresses me. The world has lost that variegated effect by which its infinitely shifting angles catch the light in striking new ways as it revolves. Without anything to impress me there’s nothing to excite me, no reason for me to either accept or reject the proposition of life. All that remains is a sort of mild annoyance, a pitiful resentment of life that lacks even the violence or strength to boil over into despair or anger. And so I drift through my days, alienated from past, present and future, without even the power to contest, rival, or desire anything.
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Rascals are always sociable, and the chief sign that a man has any nobility in his character is the little pleasure he takes in others company. Arthur Schopenhauer