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without scorn, without love, with unfathomable eyes, wet
and sad as a plummet which has returned to the light insatiat-
ed out of every depth—what did it seek down there?—with
a bosom that never sighs, with lips that conceal their loath-
ing, with a hand which only slowly grasps: who art thou?
what hast thou done? Rest thee here: this place has hospi-
tality for every one—refresh thyself! And whoever thou art,
what is it that now pleases thee? What will serve to refresh
thee? Only name it, whatever I have I offer thee! ‘To refresh
me? To refresh me? Oh, thou prying one, what sayest thou!
But give me, I pray thee—-’ What? what? Speak out! ‘An-
other mask! A second mask!’
- Men of profound sadness betray themselves when they
are happy: they have a mode of seizing upon happiness as
though they would choke and strangle it, out of jealousy—
ah, they know only too well that it will flee from them! - ‘Bad! Bad! What? Does he not—go back?’ Yes! But you
misunderstand him when you complain about it. He goes
back like every one who is about to make a great spring. - —‘Will people believe it of me? But I insist that they
believe it of me: I have always thought very unsatisfactorily
of myself and about myself, only in very rare cases, only
compulsorily, always without delight in ‘the subject,’ ready
to digress from ‘myself,’ and always without faith in the
result, owing to an unconquerable distrust of the POSSI-
BILITY of self- knowledge, which has led me so far as to