“I’M tying my shoes, happy, whistling, and suddenly unhappiness. But this time I caught you, anguish. I sensed you ahead of any mental organization, with the first negative judgment. Like a gray color that might be a pain and might be my stomach. And almost at the same time (but afterwards, you won’t fool me this time) the way was opened for the intelligible repertory, with an explicatory idea first off: “And now to live another day, etc.” From which there follows: “I’m anxious because . . . etc.”
I woke up and I saw the light of dawn through the cracks in the Venetian blinds. It came from so deep in the night that I had a feeling like that of vomiting up myself, the terror of coming into a new day with its same presentation, its mechanical indifference of everytime: consciousness, a sensation of light, opening my eyes, blinds, dawn.
In that second, with that omniscience of half-sleep, I measured the horror of what astounds and enchants religions so much: the eternal perfection of the cosmos, the unending rotation of the globe on its axis. Nausea, the unbearable feeling of coaction. Í am obliged to bear the daily rising of the sun. It’s monstrous. It’s inhuman.” – Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch, § 67.