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reassuring movement, I suspect, much as a blind old man might suppose the ringing, scraping noise of diggers is the earth-mastering work of sewer laying whereas what they are digging there is a grave, and what is more, a grave specifically for him. In short, I suddenly caught myself writing because I had to write, even though I did not know why I had to, the fact is I noticed that I was working incessantly, one might say with an insane diligence, always working, driven not solely by the need to make ends meet, because even if I did not work
I would still exist
, and if I were existing then I don’t know what that would drive me to do, and it is better that I don’t know, even if my bones, my guts, have an inkling, to be sure, for the reason why I work incessantly is that while I am working I am, and if I did not work, who knows if I would be, therefore I have to take it seriously because the most deadly serious associations subsist between my continued subsistence and my work, that much is blatantly obvious and not in the least normal, even if there happen to be others, even a fair number of them, who likewise write because they have to write, though not everyone who writes has to write, but in my case there was no getting away from the fact that I had to, I don’t know why, but it seems this was the only solution open to me, even if it solves nothing, on the other hand at least it does not leave me in a position of—how shall I put it?—unsolvedness that would compel me to regard it as unsolved even in its unsolvedness and consequently torment me not only by virtue of unsolvedness but also by the shortcomings of this unsolvedness and dissatisfaction over that. In hindsight, I may perhaps have considered writing was an escape (and not entirely groundlessly: at worst I supposed I was escaping in another direction, towards a goal other than the one towards which I was actually escaping and even now increasingly escape), an escape, indeed a salvation, a salvation and absolutely indispensable
demonstration
of myself and, through myself, of my material and moreover, to use grand words, mental world to the one—anyone—who will feel shame on one’s account and (possibly) for one; and that night had to ensue for me to see at last in the darkness, to see among other things the nature of my work, which in its essence was nothing more than digging, the continued digging of the grave that others had begun to dig for me in the air and then, simply because they did not have time to finish, hastily and without so much as a hint of diabolical mockery (far from it: just like that, casually, without so much as a look around), they thrust the tool in my hand and left me standing there to finish, as best I could, the work that they had begun. And so all my flashes of recognition were merely recognitions leading towards this recognition, and whatever I did, it all became just a recognition within me that led to this recognition—my marriage, just as much as the fact that I said
    â€œNo!” instantly and at once, without hesitation and virtually instinctively, yes, still instinctively, for the time being merely instinctively, albeit with instincts that ran counter to my natural instincts, which, however gradually, would (did) become my natural instincts and indeed my very nature; so this “no” was not a decision in which I might (might have), let’s say, decided freely between a “yes” and a “no”; no, this “no,” the decision, was a recognition, but not a decision that I reached or could have reached, rather a decision
about myself
, or not even a decision but a recognition of my verdict, a decision that could be regarded as such only insofar as I did not decide against the decision, which would undoubtedly have been the wrong decision, for how could a person make a decision against his fate, if I may use this pretentious expression, by which (fate, that is to say)