«She remembered she had opened the diary at random about a year ago, and had winced at something written when she was twenty-two. The more recent entries were apt to be about moods and thoughts. Such as one she remembered quite well written at least eight years ago:
‘Isn’t it safer, even wiser, to believe that life has no meaning at all?’
She’d felt better after getting that down on paper. Such an attitude wasn’t phony armor, she thought, it was a fact that life had no meaning. One simply went on and on, worked on, and did one’s best. The joy of life was in movement, in action itself».
(Edith’s Diary, by Patricia Highsmith)
