"My youth," she said, gently.
He was silent. Then he said:
"I interrupted myself just now. I meant to tell you that, after my games as a child, it was always my obsession . . . to be something. To be somebody. To be a man. To be a man among men. That was when I was a boy of sixteen or seventeen. Afterwards, at the university, I was amazed at the childishness of Hans and Van Vreeswijck and the others. They never thought; I was always thinking . . . I worked hard, I wanted to know everything. When I knew a good deal, I said to myself, 'Why go on learning all this that others have thought out? Think things out for yourself!' . . . Then I had a feeling of utter helplessness . . . But I'm boring you."
"No," she said, impatiently.
"I felt utterly helpless . . . Then I said to myself, 'If you can't think things out, do something. Be somebody. Be a man. Work!' . . . Then I read Marx, Fourier, Saint-Simon: do you know them?"
"I've never read them," said she, "but I've heard their names often enough to follow you. Go on."
"When I had read them, I started thinking, I thought a great deal . . . and then I wanted to work. As a labourer. So as to understand all those who were destitute . . . God, how difficult words are! I simply can't speak to you about myself."
