I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is an animal, like any other which sought its meat from God.

But now I really was happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity.

I had been right in feeling all things as odd, for I myself was at once worse and better than all things.

The optimist's pleasure was prosaic, for it dwelt on the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was poetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of the supernatural.

The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in acquiescence.