Too much of the memory of my mother, too much of the memory of Max Demian was contained in the form which embraced me.
The embrace seemed repulsive to my sentiment of reverence, yet I felt happy.
I often awoke out of this dream with a deep feeling of contentment,
often with the fear of death and a tormenting conscience as if I were guilty of a terrible sin.
It was only gradually and unconsciously that I realized the connection between this mental picture and the hint
which had come to me from outside concerning the god of whom I was in search.
However, this connection became closer and more intimate,
and I began to feel that precisely in this dream, this presentiment, I was invoking Abraxas.
Rapture and horror, man and woman, the most sacred things and the most abominable interwoven,
the darkest guilt with the most tender innocence—such was the dream picture of my love, such also was Abraxas.
Love was no longer a dark, animal impulse, as I had felt with considerable anxiety in the beginning.
Neither was it a pious spiritualized form of worship any longer, such as I had bestowed upon the picture of Beatrice.
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