But there, too, Gombrowicz had given me a little hope, lit a barely perceptible flame in the great darkness of my banality. Didn’t he write, “Physical comfort can sharpen the sensibilities of the soul, and behind the cozy curtains, in the suffocating sitting rooms of the middle classes, engenders a toughness of which those who attacked tanks with Molotov cocktails could never dream.” Oh, to hell with everything.
