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 the enclosure to the other. I began to think of my fellow-beings as mechanical toys, automatically performing the rites of coeval or geographical morality or custom, with occasional baffling and disturbing interruptions caused by the fierce demands of sex or greed. There appeared to be no justification for life, no sense to it. I foresaw that I should become like the others. It was during this fatal period that I came upon the studies of Sigmund Freud and, convinced as I was at the time that there was truth in his diagnosis of the universal neurosis, I was quite prepared to commit suicide.

What I actually did do. . . Gunnar now looked Campaspe full in the eyes. . . was something much worse. I fell in love. Here, too, I shall abridge, giving you only the essentials of an affair to which I might easily devote ten evenings, or write down in a book which would be longer than a la Recherche du temps perdu. I fell in love with a lady who apparently loved me also. It was arranged, after a short but seething courtship, that we should be married. One evening, however, shortly before that solemn ceremony was to be celebrated, she persuaded me to yield to her charms, and our physical union was consummated. The events of the next two months assumed the form of a hideous vision—even yet there seems nothing real to me in this sordid adventure. I was completely in the power of lust. There was, assuredly, no happiness in those months; rather, every variety of misery