A long time I stood before his door, a long time I listened on the dark staircase,
a long time I stood outside in front of the house, waiting to see whether perhaps he would come out to me.
Then I went on, walking for hours and hours through town and suburbs, park and wood, until evening fell.
At that moment I felt for the first time the mark of Cain on my forehead.
I fell to pondering and rumination. I had every intention, in thinking matters over, to accuse myself and to defend Pistorius.
But all ended to the contrary. A thousand times I was ready to repent of my rash word and to withdraw it—but it had been true, nevertheless.
Now I succeeded in understanding Pistorius, in building up his whole dream.
This dream had been to be a priest, to proclaim a new religion, to invent new forms of exultation, of love, of worship, to set up new symbols.
But this was not within his province. He lingered too long in the past, he knew too much of what had been,
he knew too much of Egypt, of India, of Mithras, of Abraxas.
His love was attached to ideas with which the world was already familiar.
And in his inmost self he probably recognized that the new religion had to be different,
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