Tropic of Cancer

Things are always happening. it seems wherever i go there is drama. people are like lice — they get under your skin and bury themselves there. you scratch and scratch until the blood comes, but you can’t get permanently deloused. everywhere i go people are making a mess of their lives. everyone has his private tragedy. it’s in the blood now — misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. the atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. scratch and scratch until there’s no skin left. however, the effect upon me is exhilirating. instead of being discouraged, i enjoy it. i am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. i want the whole world to be out of whack, i want everyone to scratch himself to death.

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