, and prepared for dissolution.

Two years ago! It is only for the last few months that I have been able
to look back on that nightmare of a time in Verona with philosophic
equanimity. And this morning is the first occasion on which I have felt
that dispassionate attitude towards a past self which enables a man to
set down without the heartache the memories of days that are gone. I sit
upon the flat roof of this house in Mogador on the Morocco coast, shaded
by an awning from the bright African sun which glints in myriad sparkles
on the sea visible beyond the house-tops. The atmosphere last night was
somewhat heavy with the languorous, indescribable, and unforgettable
smell of the East; but the morning is deliciously wind-swept by the
Atlantic breeze, and the air tastes sweet. And it is clear, dazzlingly
clear. The white square houses and the cupolas of the mosques stand
out sharp against a sky of intense, ungradated blue. I am away from the
centre of the busy sea-port and the noise of its streets thronged with
grain-laden camels and shouting drivers and picturesque, quarrelling,
squabbling, haggling Moors and Jews and desert Arabs, and I am enveloped
in the peace of the infinite azure. Besides, yesterday afternoon, as
I rode back to Mogador, across the tongue of desert which separates it
from the Palm Tree House, and the town rose on the horizon, a dream city
of pure snow set in the clear sunset amethyst against the still, pale
lapis lazuli of the bay--something happened. And yesterday evening more
happened still.

Two years ago, then, I faced in Verona the dissolution of my ineffectual
existence. I could see no reason for living. My theory of myself in my
relation to the cosmos had been upset by practical phenomena. No other
theory based on surer grounds presented itself. But what about life,
said I, without a theory? Already it was life without a purpose, without
work, without friends, without Judith and without Carlotta. I could not
endure it without even a theory to console me. Beings do exist devoid of
loves or theories. But of such, I thought, are the beasts that perish.
I reflected further. Supposing, on extended investigation, I found a new
theory. How far would it profit me? How far could I trust it not to lead
me through another series of fantastic emotions and futile endeavours
to the sublime climax of murdering a one-eyed cat? Self-abomination and
contempt smote me as I thought of poor Polyphemus stretched