soul alone, the soul at any price—that he wants to have.
Who knows whether he will not again become a faithful husband to Martha?
I dislike all colourless people. And I dislike myself along with them, since I find I am growing more and more colourless day by day. I feel out of sympathy with my own type of character: I am ordinary. I have had enough of my life; more than enough of it.
How terribly I am craving now for some one who shall tell me—and tell me incessantly—that I am good-looking and clever and original in mind, that I dress nicely and move gracefully.
For though at this moment I am quite satisfied that none of these things are so: yet, if I were told so this day, I should at once believe it to be true.
I am in pain. At times I feel a special need of saying all that I think. At times it is so hard to wear a mask. … And I want some sympathy. …
I was at the Wildenhoff's to-day, and had a talk with Witold. I cannot conceive how it
