It seems to me there is something typically Philistine, bourgeois, in the public house habit.
Of course, for just one night, with burning torches, to have a proper orgy and drunken revel.
But to do the same thing over and over again, drinking one glass after another—that’s hardly the real thing.
Can you imagine Faust sitting evening after evening drinking at the same table?”
I drank, and looked at him with some enmity. “Yes, but everyone isn’t a Faust,” I said curtly.
He looked at me with a somewhat surprised air. Then he laughed, in his old superior way.
What’s the good of quarreling about it? In any case the life of a toper, of a libertine, is, I imagine, more exciting than that of a blameless citizen.
And then—I have read it somewhere—the life of a profligate is one of the best preparations for a mystic.
There are always such people as Saint Augustine, who become seers. Before, he was a sort of rake and profligate.”
I was distrustful and wished by no means to let him take a superior attitude towards me.
So I said, with a blasé air: “Well, everyone according to his taste! I haven’t the slightest intention of doing that, becoming a seer or anything.”
Demian flashed a glance at me from half-closed eyes. “My dear Sinclair,” he said slowly,
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