And he saw the weeks, months and years gloomily and implacably awaiting him, coming one after the other to fall upon him and gradually smother him.
When there is no hope in the future, the present appears atrociously bitter.

Laurent no longer resisted, he became lumpish, abandoning himself to the nothingness that was already gaining possession of his being.

Idleness was killing him.

In the morning he went out, without knowing where to go, disgusted at the thought of doing what he had done on the previous day, and compelled, in spite of himself, to do it again.
He went to his studio by habit, by mania.
This room, with its grey walls, whence he could see naught but a bare square of sky, filled him with mournful sadness.

He grovelled on the divan heavy in thought and with pendent arms.