One could say there is a certain solipsism in finding oneself even in literary criticism/biography, but then again, this passage simply illustrates a very common phenomenon, and does so very beautifully, I think. Maybe I should take up brawls in order to dissipate my own Weltschmerz.
Another method for such disspiation, of course, is endulging in consumerism.
Here are 3 little books that were on sale at Facultas, and my greedy heart would not be still till I had bought them. I've only read the first one so far, and besides having me step into the wrong tram twice, and once ending up completely lost in a previously unvisited part of Ottakring it reignited my admiration for Shelley. And my admiration for "reading in traffic", a very covertly prestigious thing to do. Number 2 is there because Sebald has been recommended to me and Number 3 is there because Theroux is part of the Booklovers project.
And finally there are the green shoes.
I can't make up my mind about them, but I think I do like them. I wish I still had my green dress to go with them. But evidently, my green dress has been abducted by aliens