They were the age staring down the barrel not of Is anything true but of Am I true, of What am I, of What is this thing, and it made them strange.
David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest
How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
Strangeness is the indispensable condiment of all beauty.