Now, however, I took, at first, what perhaps was a mistaken pleasure, in despising and degrading myself.

Another self seemed to arise, like a white spirit from a dead man, from the dumb and trampled self of the past.

Doubtless, this self must again die and be buried, and again, from its tomb, spring a winged child; but of this my history as yet bears not the record.
Self will come to life even in the slaying of self; but there is ever something deeper and stronger than it, which will emerge at last from the unknown abysses of the soul: will it be as a solemn gloom, burning with eyes?
or a clear morning after the rain?
or a smiling child, that finds itself nowhere, and everywhere?
.