You know, I’m getting worried at my inability to have unmediated experiences. Everything reminds me of something in literature. It reminds me of this passage in Brideshead Revisited (1945):

“Oh, don’t talk in that damned bounderish way. Why must you see everything second-hand? Why must this be a play? Why must my conscience be a Pre-Raphaelite picture?”

“It’s a way I have.”

“I hate it.” (Op. cit.)