“Is this why my confession impossible? In a way, I can relieve fatigue I weight, sticking out of my soul, chained in the written word, though no one reads it. The word is a divine gift, and has, among a thousand other virtues, a wonderful comforting energy. What is fixed and enclosed in letters, is there as a prisoner and bound, and does not hurt and destroys both the heart and what remains ineffable and report it. Moreover, to know me better, to see my bad, should introduce me differently. The appearance, our faces, how to see without a mirror reflect? Thus the soul, and the wounds that are in it, though painful, but grieve, not understood, not fully perceive, when they are confused at the bottom of the soul itself, and not expressed and declared in the human language. I will therefore study value, break or loosen the bandage or towel to cover them, and taste my wounds myself.
“Work of God is beauty. But do not accuse God of the use which may be his work. Manufactures exquisite glass potter, and is not responsible for the poison that is then deposited on it and maybe hurry to the dregs our thirsty lips.
“She’s beautiful soul and body. His eyes, blue as the sky, but do not show full of ideas and feelings honestly clean. I cannot charge her with the slightest provocation, even instinctive and she ignored. Reflection or traitor, or blind instinct in it was never lost. And this was the cause of my downfall. The effects of that reflection or that I had leftover instinct to guard successful.