Nail Meet Head

I am now out of answers . . . I feel suddenly like a tiny, doomed figure in an enormous world, slaving on an unpublishable novel (it is, in fact, an interior monolog, and yes, it does involve one three-hundred-page-long sentence) while everyone else just enjoys the sunshine and the waves. Like so many young men, I don’t feel young at all. At the age of twenty-three I am precociously jaded. I am wracked by self-consciousness, and painfully aware of the odds arrayed against me. I believe that the absence of delusions is my only claim to virtue.

--Michael Cunningham