exists only the individual; the species is an abstract idea, and in
comparison to the individual, an utter Nirvana. I understand the love
for a son, a grandson, a great grandson,--for the individual, in fact,
that is sentenced to perish,--but to profess love for one's species
one needs be insincere, or a fanatical sectarian. I can understand now
how centuries after Empedocles there came Schopenhauer and Hartmann.

My brain feels as sore as the back of the laborer who carries burdens
beyond his strength. But the laborer stooping to his work earns his
daily bread and is at peace.

I still seem to hear Sniatynski's words: "Do not philosophize
her away, as you have philosophized away your abilities and your
thirty-five years of life." I know it leads to nothing, I know it is
wrong, but I do not know how not to think.


13 March.

My father died this morning. He was ill only a few hours.


PELI, VILLA LAURA, 22 March.

Death is such a gulf, and though we know that all have to go thither,
yet when it swallows up one of our dear ones, we who remain on the
brink are torn with fear, sorrow, and despair. On that brink all
reasoning leaves us, and we only cry out for help which cannot come
from anywhere. The only solace and comfort lies in faith, but he who
is deprived of that light gets well-nigh maddened by the impenetrable