though quite unconsciously, that there was something very peculiar about him.
I saw Demian’s face, I saw not only that he had not the face of a boy, but that of a man;
I saw still more, I thought I saw, or felt, that it was not the face of a man either but something else besides.
There seemed to be also something of the woman in his features, and particularly it seemed to me for a moment,
not manly or boyish, nor old or young, but somehow or other a thousand years old,
not to be measured by time, bearing the stamp of other epochs.
Animals could look like that, or trees, or stones—I did not realize that precisely,
I did not experience the exact sensation which I, a grown-up person, am now describing,
but what I felt then approximated in some way to what I have just related.
Perhaps he was beautiful, perhaps he pleased me, perhaps even he was repugnant—I could not then determine.
I saw only that he was different from us, he was like an animal, or a spirit, or a picture,
I know not what he was like, but he was different, inconceivably different from us all.
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