In this respect they had adapted themselves to the very condition of the plague, all the more potent for its mediocrity. None of us was capable any longer of an exulted emotion; all had trite, monotonous feelings. “It’s high time it stopped,” people would say, because in times of calamity the obvious thing is to desire its end. But when making such remarks, we felt none of the passionate yearning or fierce resentment of the early phase; we merely voiced one of the few clear ideas that linger in the twilight of our minds. The furious revolt of the first few weeks had given place to a vast despondency, not to be taken for resignation, though it was none the less a sort of passive and provisional acquiescence.
— The Plague, Albert Camus (1947)