And yesterday evening more happened still.
Two years ago, then, I faced in Verona the dissolution of my
ineffectual existence. I could see no reason for living. My
theory of myself in my relation to the cosmos had been upset by
practical phenomena. No other theory based on surer grounds
presented itself. But what about life, said I, without a theory?
Already it was life without a purpose, without work, without
friends, without Judith and without Carlotta. I could not endure
it without even a theory to console me. Beings do exist devoid
of loves or theories. But of such, I thought, are the beasts
that perish. I reflected further. Supposing, on extended
investigation, I found a new theory. How far would it profit me?
How far could I trust it not to lead me through another series of
fantastic emotions and futile endeavours to the sublime climax of
murdering a one-eyed cat? Self-abomination and contempt smote me
as I thought of poor Polyphemus stretched dead on the hearthrug,
and myself standing over him, sane, stupid, and remorseful, with
the poker in my hand.
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