A certain existential emptiness

Loved these lines from Making Love by the French writer (I should actually call him an artist) Jean-Philippe Toussaint

It didn't matter who was wrong -- no one, probably. We loved each other, but we couldn't stand each other any more. There was this, now, in our love: even if we continued to do ourselves on the whole more good than harm, the little harm we did do ourselves had become unbearable.

Such is life, sometimes.

Note: Took the title of this post from this profile of the author:

With each new book, Toussaint has never moved away from a certain existential emptiness, through the restless and melancholic wanderings of his characters, haunted by details, by objects, by a sense of insignificance heightened to the point of anguish: the whole world reduced and confined to the few square metres of a bathroom, the epitome of a sanitised and empty place; or the whole world contained in an everyday object that has become deadly...