Is physical pain. Thus said Karl Marx. Or Nietzsche. Or one of those guys.
And why do I bring this up? Because I was just reading a fall preview of some upcoming cultural highlights, must sees or hears or reads or whatever. There was a tidbit on a new book coming out called "Great House." Concerning said book, the following was written:
"The novel weaves together disparate characters in far-apart places to create what an early review called 'a formidable and haunting mosaic of loss and profound sorrow.'"
1) I'm getting tired of stories that weave together disparate characters in far-apart places
2) I'm getting tired of stories about loss and profound sorrow
3) I'm going to have to whack myself over the head with a baseball bat (never mind how I will accomplish such a task) to relieve myself from all of this epic misery about disconnected and lonely people whose lives improbably intersect, perhaps in some massive car crash where they all die, but not before saying cruel and untrue things to loved ones whom they will never have a chance to talk to again.
