It is a load of psychic pain wholly incompatible with human life as we know it. It is a sense of radical and thoroughgoing evil not just as a feature, but as the essence of conscious existence. It is a sense of poisoning that pervades the self of the self's most elementary levels. It is a nausea of the cells and soul. It is an unnumb intuition in which the world is fully rich and inanimate and un-map-like and also thoroughly painful and malignant and antagonistic to the self, which depressed self It billows on and coagulates around and wraps Its black folds and absorbs into Itself, so that an almost mystical unity is achieved with a world every constituent of which means painful harm to the self. Its emotional character, the feeling Gompert describes It as, is probably mostly indescribable except as a sort of double bind in which any/all of the alternatives we associate with human agency--sitting or standing, doing or resting, speaking or keeping silent, living or dying--are not just unpleasant but literally horrible.

It is also lonely on a level that cannot be conveyed.

— Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (60%)