So art becomes not communication but mystification.

I will not attempt to describe how I got through the next few days. There are desolations of the spirit which can only be hinted at. I sat there huge-eyed in the wreck of myself.

How can one discover what he feels?""I thought he might perhaps behave — quite differently with you?""No, no. We seem to know each other well but I think that's just because I parade my feelings. He's affectionate, detached, passive, absolutely passive.""He's never told you about that place?""He's never talked about himself at all.

What follows is ambiguous and sometimes tortuously told. Man's searchings and his strugglings are ambiguous and vowed to hidden ways. Those who live by that dark light will understand.

Good-bye to the past, with its mysteries which would never be fully unfolded.