The fact is that what I discern in them I don’t clearly see. The fact is that I think I’m the first to express in words the sinister absurdity of this incurable sensation. And yet I do cure it, by writing about it. Yes, for every truly profound desolation, one that’s not pure feeling but has some intelligence mixed in with it, there’s always the ironic remedy of expressing it. If literature has no other usefulness, it at least has this one, though it serves only a few.
