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“Recently she has begun to think, with the dispassion of a scientist observing a specimen, that she no longer knows what joy feels like— that sense of soaring delight in being alive that is more than mere happiness, which she came to define as merely the absence of sadness, so that she could occasionally claim it and keep her life on its tracks. If she had been asked, she would have said she was content, but now she recognizes that featureless condition for what it is: all sensation blurred into the same narcotic fog.” — Allegra Huston
Recently she has begun to think, with the dispassion of a scientist observing a specimen, that she no longer knows what joy feels like— that sense of soaring delight in being alive that is more than mere happiness, which she came to define as merely the absence of sadness, so that she could occasionally claim it and keep her life on its tracks. If she had been asked, she would have said she was content, but now she recognizes that featureless condition for what it is: all sensation blurred into the same narcotic fog.