The Bell by Iris Murdoch

The primary problem of a philosopher: an over-analysis of situations that don't make much sense.

So stuff happens, and instead of just leaving it at that, Murdoch has to start talking about something like "guilt touched by a hint of sadness as one's love for another is seen to pass".

What upsets me most about that style of writing is the precision of the words that simply do not match the imprecision of emotions -- it's the illusion of understanding, the illusion of making sense, and it makes everything rather unbelievable.