“It gave him a kind of nervous satisfaction to see his basic grievance against reality confirmed once again by reality itself; nothing hold still. Every time you turned out around, something else had gone rotten, or fallen into despair, or disappeared entirely. In a universe that couldn't be trusted, that could at any moment just as likely as not blow up in your face like a bomb, you had to carve out your own island of order and control, however arbitrary, however illusory, just to keep going.”
Book:White Palace