I
have fallen ill with the same disease as Nietzsche and it displeases me
to admit having anything in common with this or the other world. I am
restless and neurasthenic. I have an iron hoop on my head that crushes
my skull, and my eyes throb in their sockets, swollen and bloody, tired
of dreams. I am destined to pass through this world, wandering like an
invisible meteor. Precisely because I am superior, I will have to empty
the entire cup of sorrow and distress with no joy to cheer me. But the
harsh intoxication of drinking from the chalice of sorrow is a superb
pleasure that only one who tears his soul to shreds by himself, with his
own hands, is given to taste.
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