“ People are like lice — they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can’t get permanently deloused. Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his private tragedy. It’s in the blood now-misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frusttration, futility. Scratch and scratch-until their’s no skin left. However the effect upon me is exhilirating. Instead of being discouraged, or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamaties, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I wnat everyone to scratch himself to death.
Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller (via thechocolatebrigade)
