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Biography style, and had resolutely refused to cultivate the mere prettinesses of literature; but now he began to doubt whether literature itself, like art, as to which he had already made up his mind, was not a vain, worthless, and even pernicious pursuit. "On reflecting upon the fame I should gain from my writings," he tells us, "I said to myself: Good! supposing you become more famous even than Gogol, than Pushkin, than Shakespeare, than Molière, than all the great writers of the world, what then? And I could find nothing to say, absolutely nothing. . . . Some indefinable power drove me towards the idea of ridding myself of life somehow or other. Indeed, the thought of suicide became so attractive that I had to use artifice against it so as not immediately to put it into execution. And this happened to me when I was completely happy, when I had absolutely everything I wanted: a handsome family, ample means, fame constantly increasing, the respect of my neighbours, health, strength of mind and body, apparently everything. So long as I fancied life had some meaning in it, although I knew not how to express it, the reflection of life in art gave me pleasure, and it was pleasant to me to look upon life in this mirror called art. But when I tried to discover the meaning of it all, the mirror struck me as tantalizing, or as simply nothing at all." This was in 1881. Evidently a mental and moral crisis was xxxvi.