Passage from a book

I'm reading 'Another Bullshit Night in Suck City' by Nick Flynn.

This is a passage from the book, at the age of 22, after his mother's suicide in the weeks before Christmas.

"I reappear at school at the end of January, hollowed out by it all, but I don't know where else to be. I return to my room off-campus, in a house with four "radical" women, my friends, who taught me, finally, how to be a vegetarian. I enroll for classes, show up on time, but I can't seem to focus on the second half of Shakespeare, the comedies. Or on eating. And I can't stop crying. At one point a few weeks into the semester I find myself slumming in the Frost Library at Amherst College, reading Faulkner in one of those comfortable Ivy League chairs, and after a while I realize I haven't turned the page in over an hour. I focus on a sentence, a word, and get hung up -- each seems to have its own set of problems, its own code, until at some point I understand that I'm holding the book upside down. I right it, but even then my mind gets entangled, a sentence comes at me like a truck without a driver, bearing down -- It wasn't any woman that got her into what she don't even call trouble -- I try to get out of its way, I turn it over and over, but it's more an echo than a piece of something larger. My eyes go to the period and back to the first word, it means something more than I can unlock. Wasn't any woman...got her into what...she don't even call... I know then it will be impossible for me to finish school."

Anyone who has experienced suicide (or indeed, any unfathomable death) will be able to relate to the above. My mind in the weeks and months following Craig's death was a fog. I couldn't dress myself properly, I was unable to concentrate on television (something I admit to being a junkie of previously), reading was impossible, I stopped eating -- cooking was a myth.

I didn't buy this book knowing there would be any mention of suicide -- it's funny how it chases you.