The House of Mirth

by Edith Wharton

She felt a stealing sense of fatigue as she walked; the sparkle had died out of her, and the taste of life was stale on her lips. She hardly knew what she had been seeking, or why the failure to find it had so blotted the light from her sky; she was only aware of a vague sense of failure, of an inner isolation deeper than the loneliness about her.

Yes—and tragic—like most absurdities. There’s nothing grimmer than the tragedy that wears a comic mask.