Miss Lonelyhearts de Nathanaël West
I am twenty-six years old and in the newspaper game. Life for me is a desert empty of comfort. I cannot find pleasure in food, drink, or women--nor do the arts give me joy any longer. The Leopard of Discontent walks the Streets of my city; the Lion of Discouragement crouches outside the walls of my citadel. All is desolation and a vexation of the spirit. I feel like hell. How can. I believe, how can I have faith in this day and age ? Is it true that the greatest scientists believe again in you ?