yesterday i lay in bed thinking to myself, how pitiful you are.
the only thing that has kept me winding my clock this week has been anna karenin, by leo tolstoy. on the one hand i am mildly amused that it has taken me this long to find such a good writer, and on the other hand, i want to think that reading this and love in the time of cholera only so recently yet means nothing.
and so as i lay i was reminded by nagasawa in norwegian wood - don't feel sorry for yourself. only assholes do that. and it is very interestingly made, this statement, this line written by murakami at the point in the book and at the point in the relationship between toru and nagasawa, and of course, hatsumi. don't feel sorry for yourself.
it is one of the many reasons, whether or not i share nagasawa's sentiments, although i would like to appreciate them, it is nonetheless one of the many reasons why i don't like to feel sorry for myself.
i guess you could say it is only because i had hopes that i am disappointed. i think that's fair. i have, of course, wrestled long and hard, before myself and my god, whether i should have hopes. the matter lies, of course, unanswered except for the reality of the situation. but that does not go very far either way. and i have wrestled mightily.
in any case, as i thought, i do not think that i am worthy of self-pity. no, not while the world lies hungry, sad, cold, thirsty, in pain, derelict and dying. men, women and children, no more or less deserving than i am, universal humans, all, lie in utter hopelessness as i lie in my bed and feel sorry for myself.
so i think that i do not deserve to be alive and well. i wished that i had never existed. someone else who wants to live can take my place.
yes, i think so.
