That dead spot is probed and palpated in the ever-present metaphysics, the thwarted religious sense, or in moments when a denatured suburbanite glances up beyond the telegraph poles and wires and notices that spring is coming on and experiences a jolt of indistinct excitement that is quickly smothered; or when Harry Angstrom, waiting to receive a serve in a game of social tennis, thinks of the mounting numbers of dead in his life, and feels camaraderie for his friends and loves the treetops around him - but cannot name a single tree, never reads a book, knows nothing and feels his life to be threadbare.Martin Amis here.
Here Updike imagines looking back from 2099, and here are other writers' memories.
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