Another book that I forgot to post about. Its hard to say that I enjoyed this book...because it seemed so foreign? unrelatable? But its very similar to Notes from the Underground which I did really enjoy. Not sure why one vibes with me and the other doesn't. Maybe its a matter of the detachment this book's protagonist feels, whereas Dostoyevsky's protagonist gives a sense of immediacy?
One quotation from the introduction (I sure am appreciating the context given in introductions now):
To know the nature of despair and to triumph over it in the ways that are possible to oneself - imagination was Dazai's only weapon - is surely a sort of grace.
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