It is another sign of my analytical genius, that I, aged nineteen, recognize the devils in my character. I have not the slightest wish, since things are as they are with me, to rid myself of them. There is in me much more of evil than of good. Genius like mine must needs have with it manifold bad. "I have in me the germ of every crime." I have no desire to destroy these germs. I should be glad indeed to have them develop into a ravaging disease. Something in this dreadful confusion would then give way. My wooden heart and my soul would cry out in the darkness less heavily, less bitterly.
They want something—they know not what.
I give them poison.
They snatch it and eat it hungrily.
Then they are not so hungry. They become quieter.
The ravaging disease soothes them to sleep—it descends on them like rain in the autumn.
