“I would like to get out of this place. But outside, rain is falling, the depressing, black, and desolate rain of the south, which has turned a whole town - white in the sun yesterday the length of its seafront - into a yellow quagmire. Outside this place there is only the rain and the hotel bedroom. Those who travel without respite, those who wander in isolation, those who site down in a small restaurant at a table laid with a single plate, a single glass, and prop their folded newspaper against the water jug, such persons know the periodic, regular recurrence of fits of mental despair, the disease bred of loneliness.”colette, ‘moments of stress’ (1913), in robert phelps, ed., the collected stories of colette, p.138.
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