The French call it ennui, I think, those irrepressible
feelings of sadness and listlessness that have no whys. For some time now I
have been struck by this, and I wonder if people who die of sadness begin to
die this way. This afternoon when I was all to myself I flipped through the
picture book of Audrey Hepburn, which I bought years ago when I was still in
university and did not understand lifelessness, and as I looked through the
photos I felt a little better for certainly the world could not be so terrible
when it had someone as elegant and beautiful. When I was through with the book
and finally looked up, the world was a tad tolerable.
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