“You're fucked. You thought you were going to be someone, but now it's
obvious you're nobody. You haven't got as much talent as you thought
you had, and there was no Plan B, and you got no skills and no
education, and now you're looking at forty or fifty years of nothing.
Less than nothing, probably. That's pretty heavy. That's worse than
having the brain thing, because what you got now will take a lot longer
to kill you. You've got the choice of a slow, painful death, or a
quick, merciful one.”
“Sometimes it's moments like that, real complicated moments, absorbing
moments, that make you realize that even hard times have things in them
that make you feel alive. And then there's music, and girls, and drugs,
and homeless people who've read Pauline Kael, and wah-wah pedals, and
English potato chip flavors, and I haven't even read Martin Chuzzlewit
yet... There's plenty out there.”
“And I don’t know what difference it made, this sudden flash. It wasn’t
like I wanted to, you know, grab life in a passionate embrace and vow
never to let it go until it let go of me. In a way, it makes things
worse, not better. Once you stop pretending that everything’s shitty and
you can’t wait to get out of it, which is the story I’d been telling
myself for a while, then it gets more painful, not less. Telling
yourself life is shit is like an anesthetic, and when you stop taking
the Advil, then you really can tell how much it hurts, and where, and
it’s not like that kind of pain does anyone a whole lot of good.”
from: Nick Hornby, A long way down.
One of my favourites books, about the suicide, the meaning of it, a gesture full of desire of living.
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