Damage, by Josephine Hart

Right now I'm reading "Damage" by Josephine Hart (lent to me by - who else? - the inestimable E, who has introduced me to the most wonderful books and shishas and olives and crepes and weird drinks).

Writing an e-mail to another friend tonight, I brought up a quote from the book:

"We say that life is sweet, its satisfactions deep. All this we say, as we sleepwalk our time through years of days and nights. We let time cascade over us like a waterfall, believing it to be never-ending. Yet each day that touches us, and every man in the world, is unique; irredeemable; over. And just another Monday."

I say:

The only way to deal with life is to let time cascade over us like a waterfall, believing it to be never-ending. To have to grasp at the uniqueness, the irredeemability, of each and every day would be unbearable - it would be the seeing of an untold void, a chasm of infinity that would drive one mad with its possibilities. The only way to cope is to clap on the blinkers, so all one sees is the path ahead, and thus in that way duly ride the journey to its requisite end. To see the world and life in its untold vastness would be to see insanity.