I dreamed vaguely of killing myself, to destroy at least one of these superfluous existences. But my death itself would have been superfluous. Superfluous, my corpse, my blood on these pebbles, between these plants, in the depths of this charming park. And the decomposed flesh would have been superfluous in the earth which would have received it, and my bones, finally, cleaned, stripped, neat and clean as teeth, would also have been superfluous; I was superfluous for all time.
I read this in Spring of 1997, while attending a british school in Argentina. I was in 10th grade. It's been so long that I basically remember nothing about the book itself but I do remember that I read the bulk of it during class as an escape from a situation I didn't want to be in, surrounded by people I didn't respect or care about. My only vague recollection of the story is that the protagonist feels similarly toward his surroundings. So angsty :-) I was 15.