have not enough faith in the soul within me.

I will try to tell you what I have felt since reading your letter.
All is so disgustingly calm in me now. But listen, I believe I have
had a little glimpse this afternoon of what it is to _feel_; and
because of that knowledge I now am not afraid to tell you that I
claim something of God and life--that I can get it if you can. This
has been very strong in me at moments, but, as I tell you, I have
not yet learned to hold my glimpses of truth--they seem to come to
me, and as quickly disappear.

I began to read your letter, and I cannot describe to you the
convulsion that came over me. It seemed that I had the feeling of an
empty skull on a desert; such a feeling--you can never have it! All
the horror and despair! I tried to form my thoughts and tell myself
it was not true. I tried to pray, and I did pray--out loud--and
asked God to give me strength to read the letter.

I tried to use all the penetration I was capable of, to find out one
thing, whether you were purely and unreservedly sincere in it. I
wondered whether you really wished to live your life alone, but
could not find the courage to tell me so. I firmly believe that no
failure in the future, no disgust or helplessness, could ever bring
me the complete anguish of those moments.

Can you realize what such a thing meant to me, Thyrsis?

Last spring, I had succeeded in bringing myself into an almost
complete state of coma--I saw that I could do nothing, and because I
would not endure such profitless pain I drugged myself to sleep. And