You permit me
to go to church if I like; but you have poisoned me with scepticism
to such a degree that I have grown sceptical even with regard to
you,--sceptical in regard to my own scepticism; and I do not know, I
do not know. I torture myself, and am maddened by the darkness."
ROME, 12 January.
Yesterday I allowed myself to be carried away by my writing. But all
the same it seems to me that I laid a finger upon the rottenness of my
soul and that of humanity. There are times when I am indifferent to
these questions; then again they seem to tear at me without mercy; all
the more as those are matters kept within the privacy of the soul.
It would be better to put them aside; but they are too important for
that. We want to know what we are to expect, and arrange our life
accordingly. I have tried to say to myself: "Stop, you will never
leave that enchanted circle; why enter it at all?" I have every
qualification to render myself a well-satisfied, cheerful animal;
but I cannot always be satisfied with that. It is said the Slav
temperament has a tendency towards mysticism. I have noticed that
our greatest writers and poets end by becoming mystics. It is not
surprising that lesser minds should be now and then troubled. As to
myself I feel obliged to take notice of those inward struggles in
order to get a faithful image of myself.
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