There is no infernal foolishness in the world that I could not
commit tonight. The maddest dingo dog, if he could appreciate my
state of being, would learn points in insanity.
It is two o'clock. I must go to sleep. I take from my shelves
Epictetus, who might be expected to throw cold water on the most
burning fever of the mind. I have not read far before I come
across this consolatory apophthegm: "The contest is unequal
between a charming girl and a beginner in philosophy." He is
mocking me, the cold-blooded pedagogue! I throw his book across
the room. But he is right. I am but a beginner in philosophy.
No armour wherein my reason can invest me is of avail against
Carlotta. I have no strength to smite. I am helpless.
But by heaven! Am I mad? Is not this on the contrary the sanest
hour of my existence? I have lived like an automaton for forty
years, and I suddenly awake to find myself a man. I don't care
whether I sleep or not. I feel gloriously, exultingly young. I
am but twenty. As I have never lived, I have never grown old.
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