But he looked quite different from usual. Something I did not know went out from him, enveloped him.
I thought his eyes were closed, until I saw he held them open.
But they were stiff as if gazing within or directed to an object a great way off.
He sat there perfectly motionless; he seemed not to be breathing and his mouth was as if carved out of wood or stone.
His face was white, uniformly white, as stone. His brown hair showed more signs of life than did any other feature.
His hands lay before him on the desk, without life, as still as inanimate objects, like stones or fruit, white and motionless,
yet not relaxed, but as if controlling the secret springs of a powerful life force.
The sight made me tremble. He is dead, I thought. I almost said it out loud. But I knew he was not dead.
Mesmerized, I hung on his look; my eyes were riveted to this white, stone mask.
I felt it was the real Demian. The Demian who was in the habit of walking and talking with me, that was only one side of him, a half.
Demian, who from time to time played a part, who accommodated himself to circumstances out of mere complacence.
But the real Demian looked like this, with just this look of stone, prehistorically old, like an animal,
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