Do some work on one of our assigned texts perhaps, Victor Hugo or Péguy. I feel sick at the thought. They have nothing to say to me, there's nothing there that corresponds to how I'm feeling now, nothing to help me with what I'm going through.
There is supposed to be a prayer to suit every occasion, for birth, marriage, dying, they should come up with prayers for everything, there should be one for a girl of twenty who's just had a backstreet abortion, what she thinks as she comes out, walks home, and throws herself onto her bed. That one I'd need over and over again. But all the books keep quiet on that.
in Les Armoires Vides (Cleaned Out) de Annie Ernaux