Good Morning, Midnight examines the unpredictable and powerful nature of sadness. By closely following Sasha’s emotional fluctuations as she spends a lonely period in Paris, the novel highlights two things: that sadness often has an illogical way of cropping up in even the most unexpected circumstances, and that it can be nearly impossible to withstand these strong surges of sorrow. For instance, Sasha often finds herself in perfectly pleasant, enjoyable situations in which she’s having a nice time, but then she suddenly breaks down and starts crying and, in doing so, derails her entire day or evening. As a way of coping with such volatility, she tries to protect herself from her own despair by rigorously planning out her time. She hopes that sticking to a strict schedule will keep her from wallowing in her emotions, but she never successfully builds the “emotional armour” that could insulate her from misery and loneliness. Consequently, she feels quite vulnerable even as she tries to stay busy—in fact, fleeting interactions with other people have the potential to plunge her into despair, so she starts to feel like strangers pose threats to her well-being, as if they’re constantly “fling[ing] themselves” at her. The novel thus explores how hard it can be for people to move through the world with sadness hanging over them, since that sadness often creates a kind of vulnerability that makes it quite difficult to do ordinary things. And while the novel doesn’t necessarily champion any single way of coping with sorrow, Sasha’s failed attempts to outrun her sadness by staying busy subtly suggest that avoiding difficult emotions isn’t a particularly effective way of dealing with despair.
There’s an implication in the novel that real sadness never truly goes away, instead remaining deep inside people even in relatively pleasant, care-free moments. A brief conversation with a stranger in a bar, for example, is enough to trigger Sasha’s otherwise dormant sorrow, forcing her to retreat to the bathroom so she can get ahold of herself. Once alone, though, she wonders why she started crying—after all, she was having a perfectly nice time, and nothing about the conversation was all that troubling. Faced with the seemingly illogical nature of her own emotional fragility, Sasha acknowledges that her sadness isn’t something that will simply disappear just because she’s having an enjoyable evening. She recently emerged from a period of deep depression, and though it might seem like she has been “saved” or “fished-up” from the depths of sorrow, the truth is that “there always remains something.” In other words, intense emotional hardships have a lasting effect on a person’s ability to navigate life, and such despair has a tendency to crop up in unexpected ways.
Still, Sasha tries to distract herself from intense emotion, but staying busy only makes her even more vulnerable to these overpowering surges of despair. She clings to the importance of having a plan, thinking, “The thing is to have a programme, not to leave anything to chance—no gaps.” The idea here is that scheduling her time in the right way will keep her from languishing in sorrow. She fears that a “gap” in her day would give her time to rehash her troubles, so she always thinks about what she’ll do next. What she really wants is a sense of control over her emotions. The problem, though, is that the activities she chooses aren’t very distracting. When she’s not sitting over a drink, she’s usually walking to yet another bar, giving her plenty of time to think sad thoughts. For instance, the following is the plan she makes for one of her days in Paris: “Planning it all out. Eating. A movie. Eating again. One drink. A long walk back to the hotel. Bed. Luminal. Sleep. Just sleep—no dreams.” Although she has created a strict “programme” here, it’s unlikely that these activities will keep her from slipping back into despair. Plus, they’re unrealistic—it’s probably not even possible for her to sleep without dreaming. Nonetheless, Sasha maintains the expectation that these activities will protect her from difficult feelings, and this expectation is what makes her so emotionally vulnerable. Operating on the assumption that a simple schedule will keep sadness at bay, it’s perhaps unsurprising that inevitable swells of emotion blindside her.
In a way, Sasha’s sadness isn’t random or unexpected at all—this feeling is always there, no matter what she does. And she does have good reason to be sad: she not only lost her lover Enno, but also her baby, who died shortly after birth. Sasha carries the weight of these losses everywhere she goes, which is partially why it feels so hard for her to move happily through life. Normal activities are difficult for her because she’s always actively trying to avoid her own despair. Her friend Delmar, on the other hand, proposes a different way of approaching life’s difficulties, saying that he likes to acknowledge hardship but then use this as an excuse to “take life just as it comes.” The crucial difference between his and Sasha’s ways of responding to emotional strife is that he doesn’t avoid thinking about hardship—he accepts that life is full of pain, whereas Sasha wants to run from this fact. And yet, the novel indicates that it’s not always possible to run from sadness, as made clear by Sasha’s repeated bouts of inconsolable grief in situations that are otherwise fun and lighthearted.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Sadness and Vulnerability ThemeTracker
Sadness and Vulnerability Quotes in Good Morning, Midnight
I stayed there, staring at myself in the glass. What do I want to cry about?....On the contrary, it’s when I am quite sane like this, when I have had a couple of extra drinks and am quite sane, that I realize how lucky I am. Saved, rescued, fished-up, half-drowned, out of the deep, dark river, dry clothes, hair shampooed and set. Nobody would know I had ever been in it. Except, of course, that there always remains something. Yes, there always remains something....
Twelve o’clock on a fine autumn day, and nothing to worry about. Some money to spend and nothing to worry about.
But careful, careful! Don’t get excited. You know what happens when you get excited and exalted, don’t you?....Yes….And then, you know how you collapse like a pricked balloon, don’t you? Having no staying power….Yes, exactly…. So, no excitement. This is going to be a quiet, sane fortnight. Not too much drinking, avoidance of certain cafés, of certain streets, of certain spots, and everything will go off beautifully.
The thing is to have a programme, not to leave anything to chance—no gaps.
Paris is looking very nice tonight....You are looking very nice tonight, my beautiful, my darling, and oh what a bitch you can be! But you didn’t kill me after all, did you? And they couldn’t kill me either....
Just about here we waited for a couple of hours to see Anatole France’s funeral pass, because, Enno said, we mustn’t let such a great literary figure disappear without paying him the tribute of a last salute.
Walking in the night with the dark houses over you, like monsters. If you have money and friends, houses are just houses with steps and a front-door—friendly houses where the door opens and somebody meets you, smiling. If you are quite secure and your roots are well struck in, they know. They stand back respectfully, waiting for the poor devil without any friends and without any money. Then they step forward, the waiting houses, to frown and crush. No hospitable doors, no lit windows, just frowning darkness. Frowning and leering and sneering, the houses, one after another.
I listen anxiously to this conversation. Suddenly I feel that I must have number 219, with bath—number 219, with rose-coloured curtains, carpet and bath. I shall exist on a different plane at once if I can get this room, if only for a couple of nights. It will be an omen. Who says you can’t escape from your fate? I’ll escape from mine, into room number 219. Just try me, just give me a chance.
I am not at all sad as I walk back to the hotel. When I remember how one well-directed ‘Oh, my God,’ lays me out flat in London, I can only marvel at the effect this place has on me. I expect it is because the drink is so much better.
[…]
Just then two men come up from behind and walk along on either side of me. One of them says: ‘Pourquoi êtes-vous si triste?’
These people all fling themselves at me. Because I am uneasy and sad they all fling themselves at me larger than life.
And five weeks afterwards there I am, with not one line, not one wrinkle, not one crease.
And there he is, lying with a ticket tied round his wrist because he died in a hospital. And there I am looking down at him, without one line, without one wrinkle, without one crease....
He says: ‘For me, you see, I look at life like this: If someone had come to me and asked me if I wished to be born I think I should have answered No. I’m sure I should have answered No. But no one asked me. I am here not through my will. Most things that happen to me—they are not my will either. And so that’s what I say to myself all the time: "You didn’t ask to be born, you didn’t make the world as it is, you didn’t make yourself as you are. Why torment yourself? Why not take life just as it comes? […]’
‘Do you know what I feel about you? I think you are very lonely. I know, because for a long time I was lonely myself. I hated people, I didn’t want to see anyone. And then one day I thought: “No, this isn’t the way.” And now I go about a lot. I force myself to. I have a lot of friends; I’m never alone. Now I’m much happier.’
I have an irresistible longing for a long, strong drink to make me forget that once again I have given damnable human beings the right to pity me and laugh at me.
I say in a loud, aggressive voice: ‘Go out and get a bottle of brandy,’ take money out of my bag and offer it to him.
This is where he starts getting hold of me, Serge. He doesn’t accept the money or refuse it—he ignores it. He blots out what I have said and the way I said it. He ignores it as if it had never been, and I know that, for him, it has never been.
I only came in here to inquire the way to the nearest cinema. I am a respectable woman, une femme convenable, on her way to the nearest cinema. Faites comme les autres—that’s been my motto all my life. Faites comme les autres, damn you.
And a lot he cares—I could have spared myself the trouble. But this is my attitude to life. Please, please, monsieur et madame, mister, missis and miss, I am trying so hard to be like you. I know I don’t succeed, but look how hard I try.
I am tuned up to top pitch. Everything is smooth, soft and tender. Making love. The colours of the pictures. The sunsets. Tender, north colours when the sun sets—pink, mauve, green and blue. And the wind very fresh and cold and the lights in the canals like gold caterpillars and the seagulls swooping over the water. Tuned up to top pitch. Everything tender and melancholy—as life is sometimes, just for one moment....
‘I want very much to go back to Paris,’ Enno would say. ‘It has no reason, no sense. But all the same I want to go back there. Certain houses, certain streets….No sense, no reason. Just this nostalgia[…]’
Suddenly I am in a fever of anxiety to get there. Let’s be on our way, let’s be on our way....Why shouldn’t we get as far as Brussels? All right, we’ll get as far as Brussels; might be something doing in Brussels.
But the fifteen pounds have gone. We raise every penny we can. We sell most of our clothes.
My beautiful life in front of me, opening out like a fan in my hand….
‘I’ve got some money,’ he says. ‘My God, isn’t it hot? Peel me an orange.’
‘I'm very thirsty’ he says. ‘Peel me an orange.’
Now is the time to say ‘Peel it yourself’, now is the time to say ‘Go to hell’, now is the time to say ‘I won’t be treated like this’. But much too strong—the room, the street, the thing in myself, oh, much too strong....I peel the orange, put it on a plate and give it to him.
‘Lise, don’t cry.’
‘Non, non, j’en ai assez.’
I also start to cry. No, life is too sad; it’s quite impossible.
Sitting in front of the flamme bleue, arms round each other’s waists, crying. No, life is too sad....My tears fall on her thick hair, which always smells so nice.
Enno, coming in with another bottle of Asti spumante, says: ‘Oh, my God, this is gay,’ and laughs loudly. Lise and I look at each other and start laughing too. Soon we are all rolling, helpless with laughter. It’s too much, I can’t any more, it’s too much....
Just the sensation of spending, that’s the point. I’ll look at bracelets studded with artificial jewels, red, green and blue, necklaces of imitation pearls, cigarette-cases, jewelled tortoises....And when I have had a couple of drinks I shan’t know whether it’s yesterday, today or tomorrow.
‘Then what are you afraid of? Tell me. I’m interested. Of men, of love?...What, still?...Impossible.’
You are walking along a road peacefully. You trip. You fall into blackness. That’s the past—or perhaps the future. And you know that there is no past, no future, there is only this blackness, changing faintly, slowly, but always the same.
I have my arms round him and I begin to laugh, because I am so happy. I stand there hugging him, so terribly happy. Now everything is in my arms on this dark landing—love, youth, spring, happiness, everything I thought I’d lost. I was a fool, wasn’t I? to think all that was finished for me. How could it be finished?
