"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.”