Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse.

While life was strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I pollute its mystic terrors.

It is as the wood of the Eumenides none but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.[4] What am I writing ?--I must collect my thoughts.

I do not know that any will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them at my death.

I do not address them to you alone because it will give me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be needless if you alone read what I shall write.