He was full of a nausea which overpowered him like a distasteful wine, or music that was too sweet and superficial, or like the too sweet smile of the dancers or the too sweet perfume of their hair and breasts. But above all he was nauseated with himself, with his perfumed hair, with the smell of wine from his mouth, with the soft, flabby appearence of his skin. Like one who has eaten and drunk too much and vomits painfully and then feels better, so did the restless man wish he could rid himself with one terrific heave of these pleasures, of these habits of this entirely senseless life.
The above quote is from Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, which I finished the other day and highly recommend. It’s a short read and worth it. The quote describes how I feel today, albeit to a far, far lesser degree. Lazy and fuzzy-headed and sweaty and queezy from too much sleep and too much lounging about on the computer. I’m thinking of getting some energy drinks and pulling an all-night cleaning session; maybe that would life my spirits. Actually, if experience is any guide it will put me into a deep and morose funk; but at least the feeling will be distinct and pure.
Another quote from the same book:
“Wisdom is not communicable. The wisdom which a wise man tries to communicate always sounds foolish.”
“Are you jesting?” asked Govinda.
“No, I am telling you what I have discovered. Knowledge can be communcated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.”