The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa (1982)

Nothing happens here, and that is its glory. After Fernando Pessoa's death a trunk turned up stuffed with loose fragments in no order, never finished, never meant to cohere into a book; the volume you hold was assembled out of that disorder, and it stands as his masterwork. He hands the writing to Bernardo Soares, an assistant bookkeeper who lives above a Lisbon tobacco shop and to whom nothing ever happens. Soares neither loves nor travels. He watches: the light crossing his office wall, the fog settling over the Tagus, the small traffic of the Rua dos Douradores, and he sets it down with a precision so exact that his cramped life swells until it holds everything. To read it is to sit inside a lucid, sorrowing mind that has decided the outer world is mostly noise it need not answer. You finish having recognised your own most private hours, the ones when you, too, only watched.