A CONFESSION [8]
do not think about it, but live," I can no longer do it: I have
already done it too long. I cannot now help seeing day and night
going round and bringing me to death. That is all I see, for that
alone is true. All else is false.
The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel
truth longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing --
art as I called it -- were no longer sweet to me.
"Family"...said I to myself. But my family -- wife and
children -- are also human. They are placed just as I am: they
must either live in a lie or see the terrible truth. Why should
they live? Why should I love them, guard them, bring them up, or
watch them? That they may come to the despair that I feel, or else
be stupid? Loving them, I cannot hide the truth from them: each
step in knowledge leads them to the truth. And the truth is death.
"Art, poetry?"...Under the influence of success and the praise
of men, I had long assured myself that this was a thing one could
do though death was drawing near -- death which destroys all
things, including my work and its remembrance; but soon I saw that
that too was a fraud. It was plain to me that art is an adornment
of life, an allurement to life. But life had lost its attraction
for me, so how could I attract others? As long as I was not living
my own life but was borne on the waves of some other life -- as
long as I believed that life had a meaning, though one I could not
express -- the reflection of life in poetry and art of all kinds
afforded me pleasure: it was pleasant to look at life in the
mirror of art. But when I began to seek the meaning of life and
felt the necessity of living my own life, that mirror became for me
unnecessary, superfluous, ridiculous, or painful. I could no
longer soothe myself with what I now saw in the mirror, namely,
that my position was stupid and desperate. It was all very well to
enjoy the sight when in the depth of my soul I believed that my
life had a meaning. Then the play of lights -- comic, tragic,
touching, beautiful, and terrible -- in life amused me. No
sweetness of honey could be sweet to me when I saw the dragon and
saw the mice gnawing away my support.
Nor was that all. Had I simply understood that life had no
meaning I could have borne it quietly, knowing that that was my
lot. But I could not satisfy myself with that. Had I been like a
man living in a wood from which he knows there is no exit, I could
have lived; but I was like one lost in a wood who, horrified at
having lost his way, rushes about wishing to find the road. He
knows that each step he takes confuses him more and more, but still
he cannot help rushing about.
It was indeed terrible. And to rid myself of the terror I
wished to kill myself. I experienced terror at what awaited me --
knew that that terror was even worse than the position I was in,
but still I could not patiently await the end. However convincing
the argument might be that in any case some vessel in my heart
would give way, or something would burst and all would be over, I
could not patiently await that end. The horror of darkness was too
great, and I wished to free myself from it as quickly as possible
by noose or bullet. that was the feeling which drew me most
strongly towards suicide.
V
"But perhaps I have overlooked something, or misunderstood
something?" said to myself several times. "It cannot be that this
condition of despair is natural to man!" And I sought for an
explanation of these problems in all the branches of knowledge
acquired by men. I sought painfully and long, not from idle
curiosity or listlessly, but painfully and persistently day and
night -- sought as a perishing man seeks for safety -- and I found
nothing.
I sought in all the sciences, but far from finding what I
wanted, became convinced that all who like myself had sought in
knowledge for the meaning of