Zobra the Greek

A lot of times, when I finally get around to reading a book that's on my to-read list, I no longer remember what initially drew my attention to the book. Usually it's a good thing as it diversifies my readings. 

I'm gonna guess I found Zobra through one of the existentialism books I read, since this is chiefly a philosophical book. It is beautifully written and translated, and I'm more and more appreciating the challenge of a good translation. 

The clay of the human soul is entirely unworked, unsculptured, it’s feelings still crude and boorish, unable to divine anything with clarity or certainty.

I was happy: I knew I was happy. We sense happiness with difficulty while experiencing it. Only when it has passed and we look back do we suddenly comprehend, sometimes with astonishment, how happy we have been.

Time has acquired a new taste in Zobra’s presence. It was no longer a mathematical succession of events; nor was it an unsolved problem inside me. It was warm, finely sifted sand that I felt tenderly passing through my fingers, tickling them.

I stretched out on my bed, extinguished the lamp, and began once again to transpose reality according to my loathsome, inhumane practice, removing its blood, flesh, and bones in order to reduce it to abstract ideas and to connect it with the most general of laws until I emerged with the horrible conclusion that what had happened was justified - that it was included in the universal schedule of events in a way that enriched the world’s harmony. Thus I finally arrived that the atrocious consolation that what happened was not only justified but was also necessary and proper.