'But because he didn't have it, he continued to despise what he most desired. In the evenings, after the family dinner, alone again, he watched himself suffer until his suffering became so acute that it disappeared of its own accord, unable to transcend this supreme point. Then he went to bed extremely weary, and the next day started all over again in the same way...'
from The Last Days by Raymond Queneau (Chapter 11)
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