Tuesday, August 15:
Dragging myself to the Brown Book. Iller again. — So poorly that letters from you which arrived together today I had to leave unread for several hours, although opened. I saw at a glance that I would not be able to bear them. See, that is how things are with me! — Is that unfeelingness? — Oh, if I were only vain — how much reason I would have through you to feel only proud whenever you are suffering. But it’s not like that. I feel everything as well — and can’t any more, — I can’t any more — the suffering is getting too much for me! — At last I have read them. And now — I am silent! I stare dully in front of me and think that I’m once again going to give up talking completely. Ah, what madness! What madness! And that fool Hans who wouldn’t let you go to Penzing and showed you the shops of Vienna instead! Can one believe it? Can one believe it? And this, if you please, is my one friend! — Ah, foolish hearts! Blind eyes!-But how beautiful, how beautiful you are, my wife! — Yes, you are mine, and only you have any right to me. No one else has any knowledge of me. —
Oh heavens, how long shall we have to go on tormenting ourselves in this existence? And yet — what am I saying? Was it not in this existence that we found each other? —
Why is this page blank — ?