Killing time drifting through the overpriced bookstore, the new books unaccountably smell of curry powder and, less surprisingly, regret. Is there anything more sad than seeing things you would have given as gifts to certain people, had the appropriate moment not passed?
Of course there are. There are a thousand things more sad than that. It is a stupid question. It is a question that forms in your mouth out of habit, even if you have never said it before. Its syntax is simply the way you express, that all people express, that particular emotion, even though the actual words are nonsensical. It is like bemoaning one's fate with a plaintive Why me? when you know full well that no answer to that question would begin to satisfy and when you do not believe in anything like the fundamental cosmic order that would allow such an answer.
Less rendingly, it is like that Tvíhöfði sketch in which a fellow keeps responding to his friend's excited narrative with the usual discourse markers used to manage conversation and signal the listener's attention and appreciation: Nei! Þú segir ekki! Ég trúúúúi þessu ekki!. This rhetorical and meaningless question to the universe--is there anything more sad than--is a discourse marker in a conversation with life and its vaguaries.
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