quotable quotes #3

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When oth­ers make us angry at them- at their shame­less­ness, injus­tice, incon­sid­er­a­tion- then they exer­cise pow­er over us, they pro­lif­er­ate and gnaw at our soul, then anger is like a white-hot poi­son that cor­rodes all mild, noble and bal­anced feel­ings and robs us of sleep. Sleep­less, we turn on the light and are angry at the anger that has lodged like a suc­cubus who sucks us dry and debil­i­tates us. We are not only furi­ous at the dam­age, but also that it devel­ops in us all by itself, for while we sit on the edge of the bed with aching tem­ples, the dis­tant cat­a­lyst remains untouched by the cor­ro­sive force of the anger that eats at us. On the emp­ty inter­nal stage bathed in the harsh light of mute rage, we per­form all by our­selves a dra­ma with shad­ow fig­ures and shad­ow words we hurl against ene­mies in help­less rage we feel as icy blaz­ing fire in our bow­els. And the greater our despair that is only a shad­ow play and not a real dis­cus­sion with the pos­si­bil­i­ty of hurt­ing the oth­er and pro­duc­ing a bal­ance of suf­fer­ing, the wilder the poi­so­nous shad­ows dance and haunt us even in the dark­est cat­a­combs of our dreams. (We will turn the tables, we think grim­ly, and all night long forge words that will pro­duce in the oth­er the effect of a fire bomb so that now he will be the one with the flames of indig­na­tion rag­ing inside while we, soothed by schaden­freude, will drink our cof­fee in cheer­ful calm.)

― Pas­cal Merci­er, Night Train to Lisbon

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