I spent my evening hours listening to Pierre Fournier's rendition of Bach's cello suites and reading The Brothers Karamazov. Mother later called to ask if I had a good day, and I --gasp!-- lied. Of course, she knew I was lying but didn't inquire further.
Evidently, I can write no more, for I cannot think. And I cannot think, for I am too consumed by feelings of unsurmountable sorrow and hopeless sense of failure. In such a state of mental paralysis, Dostoevsky, once a foe in my sleep, is proving to be the only capable friend. Irony never ceases to surprise me.
Leonid Ossipovitch Pasternak, Evening Before the Examination, 1895
2 comments:
If only I could help, if only there were some way to pull you out of your unfounded sense of despair.
Maybe now at least there is (1) comment instead of the dreaded (0) to make you feel worthwhile.
s
You will see me get better. Thank you....
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