I am almost ashamed to say, that I believe the souls of the dead in some way reenter and pervade the souls of the living: so that life is always the life of living creatures, and death is always our affair.

This bit, I admit, is bordering on mysticism.

I'm sorry, because I don't like mysticism.

It has no trousers and no trousers seat: _n'a pas de quoi_.

And I should feel so uncomfortable if I put my hand behind me and felt an absolute blank.
Meanwhile a long, thin, brown caterpillar keeps on pretending to be a dead thin beech-twig, on a little bough at my feet.