My one fear—surely nothing worse can either be said or listened to—is that I shall never be able to possess you. At best I would be confined, like an unthinkingly faithful dog, to kissing your casually proffered hand, which would not be a sign of love, but of the despair of the animal condemned to silence and eternal separation. I would sit beside you and, as has happened, feel the breath and life of your body at my side, yet in reality be further from you than now, here in my room. I would never be able to attract your attention, and it would be lost to me altogether when you look out of the window, or lay your head in your hands. You and I would ride past the entire world, hand in hand, seemingly united, and none of it would be true. In short, though you might lean toward me far enough for you to be in danger, I would be excluded from you forever.
If this be true, Felice—and to me there seems to be no doubt— then surely I had good reason to want with all my might to part from you six months ago, and moreover good reason to fear any conventional bond with you, since the consequences of any such bond could only be the severing of my desire from the feeble forces that still sustain me—who am unfitt for this earth—on this earth today.
I am stopping, Felice, I have written enough for today.
Franz
I was about to get undressed when my mother came in on some trifling errand, and on her way out offered to kiss me goodnight, which hasn’t happened for many years. “That’s good,” I said. “I never dared,” said my mother, “I thought you didn’t like it. But if you do like it, I like it very much, too.”