"He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning, [his] mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad."
Jag måste helt enkelt se till att läsa Kingsley Amis. Bättre beskrivningar av bakfylla och dagen-efter-ågren är svåra att tänka sig.
“When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover... You have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a shit you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is.”
2 kommentarer:
Och ändå upprepar man alltsammans nästa helg med ett glas, två glas, tre glas och kanske ett fjärde, och så tar man eeeeen liiiiiten trea rom innan man vinglar hemåt och den whiskyn knuffar en helt över kanten ;)
romen
Skicka en kommentar