A couple of days ago I found this book in a crate, at the ABC, and got very interested. It’s about Freud and his visit to the US, but seen from another perspective: murder and mystery. So I decided to give it a try, just for the heck of it. After all, I’m not that much of a mystery and thriller reader, but you never know…
The first words got me right away. How true.
“There is no mystery to happiness.
Unhappy men are all alike. Some wound their suffering long ago, some wish denied, some blow to pride, some kindling spark of love put out by scorn – or worse, indifference – cleaves to them, or they do it, and so they live each day on a shroud of yesterdays. The happy man does not look back. He doesn’t look ahead. He lives in the present.
But there’s the rub. The present can never deliver one thing: meaning.”