psychology. It was an illusion, dear friend, all an illusion, all
except that, not long ago, I was standing, by the window and doing
nothing, and that I am now sitting here and doing something--something
which is perhaps little more than nothing, perhaps even less.

I had written thus far to you about the things I had said to myself,
when, in the midst of my tender thoughts and profound feelings about
the dramatic connection of our embraces, a coarse and unpleasant
occurrence interrupted me. I was just on the point of unfolding to you
in clear and precise periods the exact and straightforward history of
our frivolities and of my dulness. I was going to expound to you, step
by step, in accordance with natural laws, the misunderstandings that
attack the hidden centre of the loveliest existence, and to confess to
you the manifold effects of my awkwardness. I was about to describe
the apprenticeship of my manhood, a period which, taken as a whole or
in parts, I can never look back upon without a great deal of inward
amusement, a little melancholy, and considerable self-satisfaction.
Still, as a refined lover and writer, I will endeavor to refashion the
coarse occurrence and adapt it to my purpose. For me and for this
book, however, for my love of it and for its inner development, there
is no better adaptation of means to ends than this, namely, that right
at the start I begin by abolishing what we call orderly arrangement,
keep myself entirely aloof from it, frankly claiming and asserting the
right to a charming confusion. This is all the more necessary,
inasmuch as the material which our life and love offers to my spirit
and to my pen is so incessantly progressive and so inflexibly
systematic. If the form were also of that character, this, in its way,
unique letter would then acquire an intolerable unity and monotony,
and would no longer produce the desired effect, namely, to fashion and
complete a most lovely chaos of sublime harmonies and interesting