A Gorgeous Young Man
“A Gorgeous young man, a little vicious in his nature, who says that his soul must have been dipped in Lethe so deeply that he came into the world without remembrance of previous existence.”
I can find no other explanation for the fact that the world always seems to him more new, more wonderful than it did to anyone he ever met on his faring; every wayside acquaintance seemed old to this amazing young man, and himself seemed to himself the only young thing in the world.
A man of letters who would parody his early style is no better than the ancient light-o’-love who wears a wig and reddens her cheeks. My melancholy is like the ancient light-o’-love of whom I spoke just now, when she sits by the fire in the dusk, a miniature of her past self in her hand.
I’m to succumb one day as the frivolous rue’s reiterating inside ma core. The egregious aplomb of my conception’s falling and becoming insipid vividly.
My youth ran into manhood, finding its way from rock to rock like a rivulet, gathering strength at each leap.
Terrible and imperative is the voice of the will to live: let him who is innocent cast the first stone.
Terrible is the day when each sees his soul naked, stripped of all veil; that dear soul which he cannot change or discard, and which is so irreparably his.
My life was like a garden in the emotive torpor of spring; now my life is like a flower conscious of the light.
One word, and that word was–self; not the self that was then mine, but the self on whose creation I was enthusiastically determined.