I discovered this guy Levé in the Paris Review. I bought a lovely little Dalkey Archive edition of one of the only English translations I could find. The book is called Suicide and shortly after publication he committed ... suicide. Sounds grim, huh? But it is a lovely book, full of little moments that make you go: "oh". Like this one. Instax seemed appropriate.
"You kept your day planners from previous years. You reread them when you doubted your existence. You would relive your past by randomly flipping through them as if you were skimming through a chronicle of yourself. You sometimes found appointments you no longer remembered, and people's names, written in your own hand, which meant nothing whatsoever to you. However, you could recall most events. And so you worried about not remembering what happened in between the things you wrote down. You had lived those moments too. Where had the gone?"
~ Suicide by Édouard Levé