Some books are dangerous. They reminds you how ridiculous and absurd things often are and you start to question them and eventually become a discontent (at least secretly). Often that's not a good thing, it conflicts with the single-minded "focus" (I sometimes think it's a form of lobotomy) demanded by most jobs. That's why I put away "The Elegance of the Hedgehog" when I started working. The free spirit of the protagonist Poloma makes me sad about my current life.
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