the effort of the word that cannot come forth, the aggravation of the forced speechlessness, and almost the spasm of a soul compressed in a prison of bone and flesh, that feels the mutilation of the ancient faculties, of which you are preserving a confused reminiscence; if you only knew how it torments me now and then, the thought that I shall never know anything of all this nor will anyone else ever know; and that we could live together for centuries without my succeeding in making the least step forward in the knowledge of your intimate being: of the vision that you have of men and of things. But you are much more fortunate than I am, that you cannot puzzle your brain over these enigmas; and you are good without knowing it, and you love without thinking, and you live to live, ignoring the misfortune and the death. . . . Death! Here is a thought that has never come to me, concerning you.
Come here, Dick: stand up! Give me your paws in my hands, and let us look each other well in the eyes to listen to each other better. What will there be for us, my dear Dick? Shall we stay a long time together? Which of us will be the one that will leave the other?
