Strindberg's feelings when confronted with the collections made by
his Paris friends:

'I am a beggar who has no right to go to cafes. Beggar! That is the
right word; it rings in my ears and brings a burning blush to my
cheeks, the blush of shame, humiliation, and rage!

'To think that six weeks ago I sat at this table! My theatre
manager addressed me as Dear Master; journalists strove to
interview me, the photographer begged to be allowed to sell my
portrait. And now: a beggar, a branded man, an outcast from
society!'

After this we can understand why Strindberg in _The Road to
Damascus_ apparently in such surprising manner is seized by the
suspicion that he is himself the beggar.

We have thus seen that Part I of _The Road to Damascus_ is at the
same time a free creation of fantasy and a drama of portrayal. The
elements of realism are starkly manifest, but they are moulded and
hammered into a work of art by a force of combinative imagination
rising far above the task of mere descriptive realism. The scenes
unroll themselves in calculated sequence up to the central asylum
picture, from there to return in reverse order through the second
half of the drama, thus symbolising life's continuous repetition of
itself, Kierkegaard's _Gentagelse_. The first part of _The Road to
Damascus_ is the one most frequently produced on the stage. This is
understandable, having regard to its firm structure and the
consistency of its faith in a Providence directing the fortunes and
misfortunes of man, whether the individual rages in revolt or