he narrow
boundary beyond which reasoning leaves off and conscious feeling
begins,--a feeling which as yet is only a conclusion of former
premises, but carried so far as to be difficult to grasp, as a golden
thread spun out to its utmost length. Moreover, I did not know how to
incorporate myself with that new life and new space,--how to melt in
it my own self. I had kept to a certain extent my own individuality,
and there was something wanting near me,--something I searched for.
Suddenly I became aware it was Aniela I was searching for. Of course,
only her and always her. What could another life matter to me without
her? I found her at last, and we roamed about together like the shadow
of Paolo with the shadow of Francesca di Rimini. I write this down
because I see in it an almost terrifying proof how far my whole being
has been absorbed by this love.

What connection is there between Bunge's Neo-Vitalism and Aniela?
Nevertheless, even when thinking of things far removed, it all brings
me back to her. Science, art, nature, life,--all are carried back to
the same denominator. It is the axis around which turns my world.

This is of great importance to me, for, in presence of all this, is it
possible that I should ever listen to the advice of reason and that
inward monitor that bids me to go away?

I know it all will end in ruin. But how can I go away; how summon
strength and will and energy when all these have been taken from me?
Tell a man deprived of his legs to go and walk about. On what? And
from myself I add: "Why? whereto? My life is here."

Sometimes I feel tempted to let Aniela read this diary, but do not
intend to do so. Her pity for me might be increased, but not her love.
If Aniela be ever mine, she will want to look up to me for support,
peace, and immovable faith for both; that is how it ought to be
where happiness is at stake. Here she would find nothing but doubts.
Supposing even she could understand all that has been and is going on
in my mind, there are many things she could not sympathize with. We
are too different from each other. For instance, when I plunge into
mysticism, when I say to myself that everything is possible, even a
future life, I do not shape it according to generally admitted ideas,
and if those general ideas may be called a normal point of view, mine
must needs be an abnormal one. Why? If everything is possible, then
why not a hell, a purgatory, a heaven, or my subplanetary spaces,-