I have to know myself. I have to know once and for all, and for certain, who I am and what I want. I’ve put this off time and time again because I was afraid. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to shine a light into my soul, or that the light would either pass over it or make me unhappy. I’ve imagined certain things about myself. But what if they don’t really exist? What if they’re just an illusion?
And that’s not all. I’ve tried to live out the characteristics that I believe are part of my soul. I imposed them on myself, made them mine. What will happen to them if I discover that they’re disguises that I’ve forced myself to wear? Will I be able to discard them without being overcome by the emptiness of my soul?
There have been many times when I’ve decided to analyse myself in depth, to calmly penetrate my soul as deeply as possible. But I haven’t succeeded. I’ve never been able to concentrate. I wasn’t able to think solely about myself. Every time I tried to analyse myself, I found myself in utter darkness. Where do I begin to look for myself? Where am I able to be myself?
What was I searching for? My soul. Where? And how would I be able to recognize my real soul among the thousands of souls that I seem to bear within me?
My mind began to wander. I woke up with my thoughts on other things. I tried again, stubbornly persisting, I closed my eyes, put my fingers in my ears, pressed my hands to my forehead. The same darkness. And nowhere did I encounter a single light, a single source of encouragement. How would I ever find myself? How would I ever find my soul and live according to its needs?
Because I want to know myself, so I can understand which path I have to follow.
I once wasted an entire afternoon and only discovered one thing, something I’d suspected for a long time: that the me of the present moment is not the same as the one from an hour ago, and even less so the one from yesterday. This left me totally astonished. I am now at a loss to understand why I decided to set out in search of my soul in the first place. If my soul isn’t a single entity, but an infinity, how could I ever come to know the real one? I’ve noticed that running through these numerous states of consciousness there is a single, continuous line.
But I have my doubts about the reality of this continuous line, which would constitute a personality. It seems that the origin of this continuity might lie in my own will, or the suggestions made by the people around me. I’ve noticed that people try not to contradict what they or others believe about them. In which case, personality would simply be imposed by our will, and not something that springs from the depths of our soul. It would be nothing but a mask.
But I know that everything I’ve written up till now can’t be true. I know there is such a thing as a single soul, and that it is reflected in thousands of fleeting viewpoints. That behind every consciousness lies this single soul. That there are many times when strange states of consciousness slip through, but they are temporary, and can be set aside by the simplest self-examination.
So I sense that within me there exists a single soul. But how do I go about reaching it? The task seems so impossible that it fills me with dread. If I were given an algebra or geometry question to solve – notwithstanding my shortcomings in maths – I’d be able to work it out, or at least identify the way in which this could be done. In the very worst case I would know where to start.
Yet when I try to find myself, I don’t have any such method at my disposal, not even a clue. It’s as if my self is a completely different world. I tried to shed some light on the subject by reading psychology books, but couldn’t find what I’m looking for. Such books discuss other subjects, no doubt interesting in themselves, but not the means by which I can come to know myself, and master the power of my soul.
And this is vital to me. Because otherwise I’ll never have the courage to succeed in life. If I can’t find the road that leads to my soul, I’m sure I’ll perish.
My soul... this is what troubles me. I’m unable to draw it into the light. I’d like to come across my soul in the same way that I find a dog’s pancreas in anatomy class. I’d like to measure it, weigh it, ascertain its value. I’d like to know if my soul is the soul of a melancholic adolescent or an over-excited male. If I am a man of learning, or a romantic. If I should trust in my current preoccupations, or if I should be suspicious, and fear changes that come too soon.
For there are days when my will is strong and my mind as clear as a grown man’s. At these times I work relentlessly, plan what I’m going to read and make a list of my books.
But there are other days when I wake up late and come home from school disheartened, when everything around me seems dull and pointless. I hate these days most of all.
My eyes stray from the page, I keep wiping my glasses in order to kill time, and I wonder: what’s the point? And if I look at the list of things that I plan to do, I feel sad.
And then there are the times that I spend staring out of my attic window, or wandering along unknown streets beneath the chestnut trees. These times trouble me, make me uneasy. Times when I don’t recognize myself. When I’m harried by a single thought, and have to summon up all my willpower to chase it away. Otherwise my courage would desert me. And I ask myself: when I’m older, will I regret this foolish adolescence that I’ve lived on the margins of life? When I’m older, will I mourn the seventeen years that I am today, a day which, for me, will end in this attic, all alone, occasionally looking out of the window at two poplar trees?
I know I’m not good-looking, but I am seventeen. And at those moments when my eyes wander from my book and my will begins to weaken, I think a great deal about these seventeen years.
There are many times when I succeed. I work late into the night, and fall asleep with a smile on my lips, content in the knowledge that I’ve won a victory over myself. At other times, however, I’m unable to resist. And, overwhelmed, I head out into the street.
All this makes me sad. I have to be constantly engaged in a struggle, I have to defend myself against the soul that I don’t know, and which sometimes reveals itself to me in a most contradictory way. My soul is never the same. Every day I encounter a different one. And I have to struggle to continue what I began a month ago, a week ago, a day ago.
If only I knew myself... then I would have so much more confidence in myself and my life... I would say: such is my soul, and that is how I like it to be. But for now I live in fear of the dark, forbidding future towards which I’m headed, guided by a blind soul. And what if at some later date everything becomes clearer, and I realize that I’ve taken the wrong path? Will I feel like a stranger in a world that I now regard as a friend? Will I have the courage to turn back, to start yet another new life? And will I have the strength?
More than once, while trying to discover who I am, I’ve been seized with dread. I wasn’t able to recognize myself in many of the things I’ve said and done. It was as if it were someone else. Before going to sleep I would think about the day that had just gone by, almost without me knowing. And I would ask myself: which one was my soul? And then, much to my horror, many strange souls would appear before my eyes.
One day I discovered that the soul I believed was mine while I was reading was actually unknown to me. And I fell asleep, exhausted and despondent. At other times I would hurry home and set to work, the master of my thoughts and soul.
While walking down the street, I would hear, drifting out of open windows, the same scales and sonatas that I had been made to play many years ago, how I had cried because my fingers were too small or the octaves too wide. Or I would hear melodies that awoke feelings of sorrow and regret in my soul. And then my steps would falter. My soul had changed. I was disheartened. The thought of my little room with all its books would cease to spur me on. I would walk more and more slowly, take one detour after another before finally getting home, my mind empty of thoughts. Not of the precious hours that I had wasted under the chestnut trees. Nor even of the books that I would write.
There were days when I would be filled with sadness at the sight of some simple illustrations, the kind that litter the pages of magazines. A girl sitting on a bench under a leafy tree somewhere, and in the distance a line of hills that I could see were bathed in sunlight. This particular etching always made me sad whenever I studied it closely. I couldn’t say exactly why. But there’s such a look of melancholy in the girl’s eyes as she sits there all alone under a leafy tree... and so many regrets in the line of hills that exists somewhere, not far away, but which I never look at because I walk straight past, my gaze fixed on a dead world.
There’s another simple illustration that affects me in the same way. It shows a country road lined with poplar trees. In the fields, reapers are busy with the harvest. A man walks along the road. It’s trite. Boring. And yet I always spend a long time looking at the poplars and the traveller. Perhaps I associate them with the poplars in the courtyard surrounded by the iron fence, which I can see from my attic window. I think of the fields that I only see in summer, or on Sundays in springtime, when I wander far from the city.
I hide the magazines and try to carry on reading. But I can’t. I’m filled with remorse. I look out of the window and see the poplar trees, the leaden coloured roofs, hear the muffled sounds of the street. Sometimes night falls. I may have cried several times without realizing.
Wearily, I light the lamp.
And then the room comes to life again, the books speak to me from their shelves, my soul returns. And I always regret the time I wasted looking out of the window, or crying over a melody played on the piano and a drawing of a country road in summer.
I’d like to know who I am, because I don’t know. I’ve filled a great many notebooks trying to find out, but I haven’t succeeded. My novel is going to be full of strange heroes. Their souls won’t be one-dimensional, or all of a piece. Up till now I’ve never met an adolescent with a soul like this. But I won’t be able to analyse my characters because I’ve never met them. So I won’t be able to plumb the depths of their souls.
I look at myself. Deep down within. So many odd characteristics, so many contradictions.
That’s why I’ll never be able to write The Novel of the Short-Sighted Adolescent, which is the only hope I’ve got.