And what was my excuse. You’re 23, from a good family with no real problems beyond being maybe not as tall as you’d like to be and you’re wandering around an empty apartment maybe wanting to kill yourself. This is your life. Congratulations.

But moreover, I discovered, in the only way that a man ever really learns anything important, the real skill that is required to succeed in a bureaucracy. I mean really succeed: do good, make a difference, serve. I discovered the key. This key is not efficiency, or probity, or insight, or wisdom. It is not political cunning, interpersonal skills, raw IQ, loyalty, vision, or any of the qualities that the bureaucratic world calls virtues, and tests for. The key is a certain capacity that underlies all these qualities, rather the way that an ability to breathe and pump blood underlies all thought and action. The underlying bureaucratic key is the ability to deal with boredom. To function effectively in an environment that precludes everything vital and human. To breathe, so to speak, without air.

Happiness no longer seemed like God’s gift to me from birth; no longer was it the right I could claim without effort, it had become a state of grace that only the luckiest, brightest, and most cautious people could attain, and with the most assiduous cultivation.

Death was so dull. That was the worst thing about death. It was dull. Once it happened there wasn’t anything you could do. You couldn’t play tennis with it or turn it into a box of bonbons. It was there like a flat tire was there. Death was stupid.

In other words, there was no universal truth. Not for them, not for anyone else. There was no one to blame or to defend, and the only justifiable response was compassion. I had looked up to them both for too many years not to feel disappointed by what I had learned, but I wasn’t disappointed only in them. I was disappointed in myself. I was disappointed in the world. Even the strongest were weak, I told myself; even the bravest lacked courage; even the wisest were ignorant.

Un hombre con una teoría es alguien que tiene algo por gritar, pero un espíritu con una teoría no es mucho más que un trozo de pan a medio masticar navegando por la boca de su médium, resistiendo junto a aquellos dientes, listo para que lo fagociten, deshagan, escupan.

The thrust is no longer for “change” or “progress” or “revolution,” but merely to escape, to live on the far perimeter of a world that might have been.

I’ll say God seems to have a kind of laid-back management style I’m not crazy about. I’m pretty much anti-death. God looks by all accounts to be pro-death. I’m not seeing how we can get together on this issue, he and I, …

I don’t know whether you’ve seen the TV images of men, with all the rain, wind, huge puddles, mud and trash on the road. So we rode too. Women are not spared, there is nobody with an umbrella driving next to us to ensure that we don’t get a dirty little face. We do not get blanket around us to protect us from the cold.
…
…
I had some time to think. My main thought was: Why am I doing this? And once back there I thought things like: It’s horrible, with all that mud in my eyes, ears and mouth. It is cold and wet. Also, I thought: I really need to pee. Shall I just do it? Then I’d get some heat, at least for a moment. And, I’m hungry, but my fingers are numb from the cold, so I can not find my bars. And then I found one, but couldn’t open it.
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I do not feel like waiting for the alarm. My muscles are stiff and sore, but my body is restless. I wave my stiff legs over the edge of the bed and go and brush my teeth. I see red eyes in the mirror. A weary head. Today we torture ourselves again during the exploration of the Tour of Flanders route. Cycling is still great. I hate it. I want no more pain. It’s delicious. On to the next course!