The affair--I mean the affair of life--couldn's, no doubt, have been different for me; for it's at the best a tin mould, either fluted and embossed, with oranmental excrescences, or else smooth and dreadfully plain, into which, a helplessly jelly, one's consciousness is poured--so that one 'takes' the form, as the great cook says, and i more or less compactly held by it: one lives in fine as one can. Still, one has the illusion of freedom; therefore don't be, like me, withotu the memory of that illusion. (查看原文)
