Of course,
only her and always her. What could another life matter to me without
her? I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow
of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini. I write this down
because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being
has been absorbed by this love.
What connection is there between Bunge's Neo-Vitalism and Aniela?
Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings
me back to her. Science, art, nature, life,--all are carried back to
the same denominator. It is the axis around which turns my world.
This is of great importance to me, for, in presence of all this, is it
possible that I should ever listen to the advice of reason and that
inward monitor that bids me to go away?
I know it all will end in ruin. But how can I go away; how summon
strength and will and energy when all these have been taken from me?
Tell a man deprived of his legs to go and walk about. On what? And
from myself I add: "Why? whereto? My life is here."
Sometimes I feel tempted to let Aniela read this diary, but do not
intend to do so. Her pity for me might be increased, but not her love.
If Aniela be ever mine, she will want to look up to me for support,
peace, and immovable faith for both; that is how it ought to be
where happiness is at stake. Here she would find nothing but doubts.
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