Only one thing I could not do: Discover the dark, concealed aim within me and make up my mind, as others did—
others, who knew well enough whether they wanted to be professors or judges, doctors or artists.
They knew what career to follow and what advantages they would gain by it.
But I was not like that. Perhaps I would be like them some day, but how was I to know?
Perhaps I should have to seek and seek for years, and would make nothing of myself, would attain no end.
Perhaps I should attain an end, but it might be wicked, dangerous, terrible.
I wanted only to try to live in obedience to the promptings which came from my true self.
Why was that so very difficult? I often made the attempt to paint the powerful love-figure of my dream.
But I never succeeded. If I had been successful I would have sent the picture to Demian.
Where was he? I knew not. I only knew there was a bond of union between us.
When should I see him again? The pleasant tranquillity of those weeks and months of the Beatrice period was long since gone.
I thought at that time I had reached a haven and had found peace.
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