"Perhaps the most dispriting consequence of my present disease - more depressing even than its practical, daily manifestations - is the awareness that I shall never again ride the rails. This knowledge weighs on me like a leaden blanket, pressing me ever deeper that marks the truly terminal disease: the understanding that some things will never be. This absence is more than just the loss of a pleasure, the deprivation of freedom, much less the exclusion of new experiences. Remembering Rilke, it constitutes the very loss of myself - or at least, that better part of myself that most readily found contentement and peace. No more Waterloo, no more rural country halts, no more solitude: no more becoming; just interminable being.
Tony Judt no New York Review of Books de Março deste ano, agora que o "interminable being" acabou.
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