“His words could not reach me”

​Everything was impossible, and always would be. I buckled and broke under the weight of tears. There was no hope of any consolation. The incommunicability cut both ways. He couldn’t tell me how much he despised me, how much he hated me. This time, I had gone too far. His words could not reach me.

How I Became a Nun. César Aira.

Awkward is Special: On Reading THE PERKS OF BEING A WALLFLOWER


In the company of a hypersensitive, overanalysing, melancholy, first person narrator who rambles on about his boring school life (sounds like me), reading Perks is tedious work. He goes on about the special people in his life, such as everyone, including a devious sounding teacher who lends him novels and makes him review each one. As it turns out, the teacher was genuinely interested in helping develop Charlie’s writing skills. Because Charlie is ‘special’– sounds ambiguous and unfair.

I guess the book’s fine as a psychological case study, as most contemporary bestsellers are, such as We Need to Talk about Kevin; this one tells the story of a boy whose traumatic childhood memory

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“even in the midst of the most intimate confidences”

For even in the midst of the most intimate confidences, false shame, delicacy, or pity always imposes some restraint. We come across precipices or quagmires in ourselves, or in the other person, which prevent pursuit; or we feel that we would not be understood; it is hard to define the obstacle exactly; but because of it, complete relationships are uncommon.

Sentimental Education. Gustave Flaubert.