how long ago it all was! was i living at that time? was it really me? is it me now? each minute of my life finds itself suddenly separated from the preceding one by an abyss; between yesterday and today there is an eternity that fills me with terror; every day it seems to me that i was less wretched the day before and, without being able to say what else i then possessed, i am sure that i am growing ever poorer, and that each hour as it comes takes something from me. i am just amazed that there is still room in my heart for suffering; but man's heart is an inexhaustible reservoir of melancholy: one or two moments of happiness fill it to the brim, but all the many miseries of humanity can easily congregate and find lodgings in it together.
if you had asked me what it was i needed, i wouldn't have been able to tell you; my desires had no specific object, and my sadness had no immediate cause; or rather, there were so many objects and so many causes that i wouldn't have been able to isolate a single one of them. all the passions crammed into my heart and became entrapped there; they set each other aflame, as if in concentric mirrors. i was a modest person, yet full of pride; a solitary, who dreamt of glory. shunning society, i yet had a burning ambition to appear on its stage a cut a dash; though chaste, day and night i would abandon myself in my dreams to the most unbridled lusts, the fiercest pleasures. the life that i held pent up inside me congealed within my heart, and choked it.
-gustave flaubert november
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