His business was to work out his own destiny, not any destiny, but his own, to live for that, entirely and uninterruptedly.
Everything else was merely an attempt to shun his fate, to fly back to the ideals of the masses, to adapt himself to circumstances.
It was fear of his own inner being. There rose before me this new picture, terrible and sacred,
suggested to me a hundred times ere this, perhaps often already expressed, but now for the first time lived.
I was a throw from nature’s dice box, a projection into the unknown, perhaps into something new, perhaps into the void,
and my sole vocation was to let this throw-up from primeval depths work itself out in me, to feel its will in me and to make it mine.
That solely! I had already known what it was to be very lonely.
Now I felt I could be lonelier still, and that I could not escape from it.
I made no attempt to reconcile myself with Pistorius. We remained friends, but our relation towards one another had changed.
Only one single time did we mention it, or rather, it was only he who spoke of the matter.
He said: “I want to be a priest, you know that. I would best of all like to be the priest of the religion of which we have so many presentiments.
I can never be that, I know. I have known it already for some time, without fully admitting it.
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