"But there are times when being happy — just happy, nothing else — is simply vile." "Why?" Jill inquired… — Imre Kertész

Of course, living is another way of killing oneself: its drawback is that it takes so horribly long.

Nonexistence. The society of the nonexistent. In the street yesterday a nonexistent person trod on my foot with his nonexistent foot.

I took a stroll in the city. It was infernally hot. The usual evening hubbub around me. Lovers on the pavements, hurrying to cinemas and other places of amusement as if nothing had happened, nothing. Living their nonexistent lives. Or do they exit, and it’s me who doesn’t.