Just above my diaphragm is a knot that won’t be loosed. It keeps me hurrying—get your food eaten, get your errand done, get to the beach. There is no point here in hurrying. Light, warmth, moist cruising clouds, expanses of sweetly cool, just-ruffled water are an invitation to take time, to waste it. Time’s use here lies in its being wasted. But I keep asking, what’s wrong here? What can leading such a life mean? What kind of people can lead such lives? Of course the answers are that anyone can lead such a life (St. Barthes would add to its enjoyability the enjoyment of deciphering that enjoyability), that such a life is supposed to mean nothing beyond itself (it isn’t necessarily a product of social justice), that nothing may be wrong here except in my own compulsion to find fault, to find significance.

Harry Mathews, 20 Lines a Day