Throughout the novel our hero laments that he possesses no talent for writing, and here for the first time he expresses his displeasure.
"It seemed to me then that I existed in the same manner as all other men, that I must grow old, that I must die like them, and that among them I was to be distinguished merely as one of those who have no aptitude for writing. And so, utterly despondent, I renounced literature forever..."
"This intimate, spontaneous feeling, this sense of nullity of my intellect prevailed against all the flattering words that might be lavished upon me, as a wicked man whose good deeds are praised by all is gnawed by secret remorse."
No comments:
Post a Comment