what's it say about god, the birds eye view to read novels in which everyone's unhappy, and so convincingly so, because their narrow understanding of their lives and the universe can yield no other conclusion, while everyone else is staying miserable armed with that parallel narrow mindedness? happiness is in other people and all in the way you understand them. the high drama of lots of stuff, as the birds eye view reader, are the pinnacles of dubious feeling worked up in solitude, feelings one can't unravel because they're too tight with dignity and privacy and all the other unhappy bullshit that keeps us from other people.
but who wants to take the average, then, by talking it out?
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