By nature rather a mathematician than a poet, he had not known until now any inspiration, any ecstasy and at times he felt like a madman, looking for the squaring of a circle in pools of human blood.

The enemy against whom he struggled every day could not inspire him with respect.

It was a dense net of stupidity, treachery and falsehood, vile insults and base deceptions.
The last incident which seemed to have destroyed in him forever the desire to live, was the murder of the provocateur which he had committed by order of the organization.

He had killed him in cold blood, but when he saw that dead, deceitful, now calm, and after all pitiful, human face, he suddenly ceased to respect himself and his work.

Not that he was seized with a feeling of repentance, but he simply stopped appreciating himself.