At twenty-eight

Aan de vooravond van ons net-geen-dertig zijn we nog steeds niet van plan het veel rustiger aan te doen, maar niettemin komt het onderstaande ons beangstigend bekend voor.

A poet might die at twenty-one, a revolutionary or a rock star at twenty-four. But after that you assume everything's going to be alright. You've made it past Dead Man's Curve and you're out of the tunnel, cruising straight for your destination down a six-lane highway - whether that's what you want or not. You get your hair cut; every morning you shave. You aren't a poet anymore, or a revolutionary or a rock star. You don't pass out drunk in phone booths or blast out the Doors at four in the morning. Instead, you buy life insurance from your friend's company, drink in hotel bars, and hold on to your dental bills for tax deductions. At twenty-eight, that's normal.

Haruki Murakami, highly recommended als u al eens een boek placht open te slaan.