The future had made way into his heart, where everything was in process and suspense. The far-off days of childhood. The day when he said: “I will be free.” The day when he had said: “I will be famous,” appeared to him even now with their individual future, like a small, circled individual sky above them all, and that future was himeslf, himself just as he was in present, weary and a little overripe, they had claims upon him across the passage of time past, they maintained their insistencies, and he was often visited by attacks of devistating remorse, because his casual, cynical present was the original future of those past days. It was he whom they had awaited for twenty years, it was he, this tired man, who was pestered by a remorseless child to realize his hopes; on him it depended whether these childish pledges should remain childish or whether they should become the first announcement of a destiny. His past was in continual process of retouching by the present; every day belied yet further those old dreams of fame, and every day had a fresh future, from one period of waiting to the next, from future to future- life was gliding- towards what? Towards nothing.
If I died today no one would ever know whether I was a washout or whether I still had a chance of self-salvation.