What do you think?
Rate this book


360 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1882
The same perverse friend who had brought me into the world took me out of it, repeating the same magic words he’d said way back then, and also the diabolical sorcery of the bottle, the drop of ink, and the burnt paper which had preceded my incarnation.
“My dear fellow,” I said to him, “will you please have done with me once and for all and take back this mortal flesh you’ve put me into just for your own amusement? It’s not the least bit amusing to me…!”
As he let me slip from between his fingers, the serenity I felt made me realize that I was no longer a man. (page 258, ellipses in original)
What had happened to that repose and marvelous equilibrium of the North European woman I had seen in her? In those fine qualities, as in others, I had got the notion that she was, among all the creatures I had seen on earth, the most perfect. Oh, those perfections were in my books, they were the product of my penchant for thinking and synthesizing, and of my too-frequent dealings with an idea of unity and with the great laws of that deadly gift for perceiving archetypes and not persons.
My new affliction consisted of having a vision of her bereft of all the perfections in which my ideas had clothed her, and in realizing I found her more interesting and loved her more this new way. In a word, I reached the point of feeling a burning idolization of her. A strange contradiction! When she was perfect, I loved her in a Petrachan way, with cold sentimental feeling that might have inspired me to write sonnets. Now that she was imperfect, I adored her with a new and tumultuous affection, stronger than I and all my philosophizing. (page 227)