And then, all of a sudden, old age drops down like snow on the head, and with it the ever-growing, ever-gnawing, and devouring dread of death.
Everywhere the same ever-lasting pouring of water into a sieve, the ever-lasting beating of the air, everywhere the same self-deception-half in good faith, half conscious - any toy to amuse the child, so long as it keeps him from crying. All the stages of man's life passed in order before his mental gaze (he had himself lately reached his fifty-second year), and not one found grace in his eyes. He thought of the vanity, the uselessness, the vulgar falsity of all things human. Sleep it was useless to reckon upon he knew he should not sleep.
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A sort of clinging repugnance, a weight of loathing closed in upon him on all sides like a dark night of autumn and he did not know how to get free from this darkness, this bitterness. Had he been a little younger, he would have cried with misery, weariness, and exasperation: a biting, burning bitterness, like the bitter of wormwood, filled his whole soul. and, for all that, never yet had the taedium vitae of which the Romans talked of old, the 'disgust for life,' taken hold of him with such irresistible, such suffocating force. He had passed the whole evening in the company of charming ladies and cultivated men some of the ladies were beautiful, almost all the men were distinguished by intellect or talent he himself had talked with great success, even with brilliance. Never had he felt such weariness of body and of spirit. He had dismissed the servant after the candles were lighted, and throwing himself into a low chair by the hearth, he hid his face in both hands. At two o'clock in the night he had gone back to his study.
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