As I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently reading a book called The Cowards (Zbabelci) by Czech writer Josef Skvorecky. It might possibly be one of the most enjoyable books I’ve ever read.
“Christ, everything in my life always gets fouled up. Always. Every goddamn time. I always have to go somewhere else when I feel like staying where I am and I’ve always got to stay when it would be wonderful to go somewhere else. Something always turned up to make things come out wrong. But that was me. Me all over. Maybe I just wasn’t made for love or for happiness, for anything. I was just made to get through life somehow or other, to live it through and observe it and be a part of it, and to… But I didn’t know why else I’d been made except I knew there must be some other reason, that I had to be made for something more than just that, like for playing the saxophone, maybe. That was the best thing I could come up with but maybe there was something else, too, something even better. There had to be” (p. 240)