actually …
one fine day you decide to talk less and less about the things you care most about, and when you have to say something, it costs you an effort … you’re good and sick of hearing yourself talk … you abridge … you give up … for thirty years you’ve been talking … you don’t care about being right anymore. you even lose your desire to keep hold of the small place you’d reserved yourself among the pleasures of life … you’re fed up … from that time on you’re content to eat a little something, cadge a little warmth, and sleep as much as possible on the road to nowhere. to rekindle your interest, you’d have to think up some new grimaces to put on in the presence of others … but you no longer have the strength to renew your repertory. you stammer. sure, you still look for excuses for hanging around with the boys, but death is there too, stinking, right beside you, it’s there the whole time, less mysterious than a game of poker. that only thing you continue to value is petty regrets
—louis-ferdinand céline, journey to the end of the night
