And while I amused and often terrified my friends with monstrous cynicisms,
as we sat at dirty tables stained with puddles of beer, in low public houses,
I had in my heart a secret, deep reverence for everything at which I scoffed—
inwardly I was weeping bitterly at the thought of my past life, of my mother, of God.
There is a good reason for the fact that I was never one with my companions,
that I remained lonely even in their midst, that I suffered in the manner above described.
I was a hero of drinking bouts, with the roughest of them, I was a scoffer after their own heart.
I showed courage and wit in my ideas and in my talks about masters, school, parents, the church—
I listened to their smutty stories unflinchingly and even ventured one or two myself—
but I was never about when my boon companions went off with girls.
I remained behind alone, filled with an ardent desire for love, a hopeless longing,
whereas to judge from my conversation I must have been a hardened rake.
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