Left to himself alone, deprived of the means of action, Clerambault
turned his heated thoughts back on himself. Nothing now held him from
the path of harsh truth; there was nothing between him and its cold
light. His soul was shrivelled like those _fuorusciti_ who, thrown
from the walls of the cruel city, gaze at it from without with
faithless eyes. It was no longer the sad vision of the first night of
his trials, when his bleeding wounds still linked him with other men;
all ties were now broken, as with open eyes his spirit sank down
whirling into the abyss; the slow descent into hell, from circle to
circle, alone in the silence.
"I see you, you myriads of herded peoples, hugging together perforce in shoals to spawn and to think! Each group of you, like the bees, has a special sacred odour of its own. The stench of the queen-bee makes the unity of the hive and gives joy to the labour of the bees. As with the ants, whosoever does not stink like me, I kill! O you bee-hives of men! each of you has its own peculiar smell of race, religion, morals and approved tradition; it impregnates your bodies, your wax, the brood-comb of your hives; it permeates your entire lives from birth to death; and woe to him who would wash himself clean of it.
"He who would sense the mustiness of this swarm-thinking, the night-sweat of a hallucinated people, should look back at the rites and beliefs of ancient history. Let him ask the quizzical Herodotus to unroll for him the film of human wanderings, the long panorama of social customs, sometimes ignoble or ridiculous, but always venerated; of the Scythians, the Gatae, the Issedones, the Gindares,
