I knew a man who managed to find an evil word for whatever thing he didn't have, or couldn't understand. So long as a man is the prey of his passions, a slave to his sense, and the plaything of his imagination, any secret torment or bitterness he feels is easier to understand and to bear, because it is deserved, and seems the natural consequence of a flawed existence. But later on, when he has mastered his selfishness, and is wholly given over to work and able to live for others, yet still espies that same bitterness at the end of every path - then, truly, a man does not know what to think, and he has nothing left to hope for. There remains at moments just one shining hope, as fleeting as lightning, that all this is not true reality; the thought that we will wake up, groaning.
IVO ANDRIĆ
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