Father, father! it does me more good to write to you than to speak to you! I could not speak with the fire which now rushes to my pen, and which would not rush to my lips.

Writing, I speak, I cry out to the immortal in you, I divest you of all that is mortal even in your soul, and which in your presence would extinguish my fire.

I divest you of the mortality of an incomplete knowledge of things, of prudence, which would prompt you to veil your thoughts.

No, I will not send this letter, but nevertheless it will reach you.

I will burn it, but still it will reach you; for it is not possible that my silent cry should not come to you, perhaps now, in the darkness of the night, while you sleep, perhaps in two hours' time, still in the darkness of the night, while you pray with the brothers, in the dear church, where we worshipped so often together.
I know why I am wretched, I know why God has forsaken me.