Thursday, August 24:
I turn ever more sadly to the Brown Book. I feel as if I ought now to let myself be deprived even of being near to you! No letter for three days. — I can understand!!—These pious wordlings are, and remain, incomprehensible to me! God knows how it is with their genuineness. To me most things about it are alien and unintelligible! - Good morning!
My Tristan! My beloved! — I drove you to the abyss! I was used to standing there. I have a head for heights. But I cannot see anyone standing at the edge: I am seized with frenzied sympathy. I grab hold to pull back, and I push over, just as we kill the sleep-walker we shout at in alarm. — It was thus I pushed him over. And myself? — I have a head for heights — I can look down, — indeed, it pleases me to — But my friend? It is him I lose.
My Tristan! My Beloved!
This has been another day! — Nameless anxiety for my dear wife! She does not write: is something being concealed from me? — There is one comfort! Comfort?? Were you to fall into the abyss, I would not stand any longer at the edge. At present I am still living — Where are you? —