parresia

Sometimes, often actually, I think

Sometimes, often actually, I think that my own feelings could not be better stated than in Dostoyevsky's words

My chief occupation at home was reading. I sought to drown all that was continually seething within me in external sensations. And the only external sensations available to me were in reading. Of course, reading helped me a great deal: it stirred, delighted, and tormented me. But at times I'd get terrbily tired of it. I longed to move about, and would suddenly plunge into dark, surreptitious, sordid debauchery-- not even debauchery: mean, paltry dissipation. My wretched little lusts were sharp and smarting due to my constant state of morbid irritability.