“Who is that?” I asked quickly. He looked at me, with eyes somewhat closed; as his fashion was when he meditated.
Then he looked away and gave no answer, and in spite of my lively curiosity I could not bring myself to repeat the question.
But I believe he was referring to his mother. He seemed to live on very intimate terms with her,
but he never spoke about her, never invited me to his house. I scarcely knew what his mother looked like.
Several times I attempted to imitate his example by concentrating my will-power on something so firmly that I would have to attain it.
I had desires which seemed to me sufficiently pressing. But nothing came of it.
I could not bring myself to talk matters over with Demian. I should not have been able to make him understand what I wanted.
He did not ask, either. My faith in matters of religion had meanwhile suffered many a breach.
Yet in my manner of thinking, which was entirely under the influence of Demian,
I was to be distinguished from those of my schoolfellows who professed an entire disbelief.
There were a few such who let occasional phrases be overheard,
to the effect that it was laughable and unworthy of man’s dignity to believe in a God,
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