If the police had come for me then and had bound me and led me away to the gallows as a desecrator and as the scum of humanity,
I should have acquiesced; should have gone gladly. I would have found it right and fitting. That was the state of my feelings.
I, who had gone about despising the world! I, who had been so proud in spirit and who had shared Demian’s thoughts!
So I appeared a filthy pig, to be classed with the scum of the earth, drunk and befouled, disgusting and common,
a dissolute beast, carried away by abominable instincts.
So I appeared, I who came from those gardens whose bright flowers had been purity and sweet gentleness,
I who had loved Bach’s music and beautiful poetry!
I could still hear, with aversion and disgust, my own laugh, the drunken, uncontrolled, convulsive and silly laugh which escaped me.
That was I! But in spite of everything there was a certain enjoyment in suffering these torments.
I had lived for so long a blind, dull existence, for so long had my heart been silent, impoverished and shut up,
that even this self-accusation, this self-aversion, this entirely dreadful feeling was welcome.
At least it was feeling; flowers were flaring up, emotion was quivering therein.
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