My life and death would be like that. It had the ring and rhythm of my fate.
In those weeks I had begun to read a book which made a deeper impression on me than anything I had read before.
Even in later years I have seldom chanced upon books which have made such a strong appeal to me, except perhaps those of Nietzsche.
It was a volume of Novalis, containing letters and apothegms.
There was much that I did not understand. But the book captivated me and occupied my thoughts to an extraordinary degree.
One of the aphorisms now occurred to me. I wrote it with a pen under the picture:
“Fate and soul are the terms of one conception.” That I now understood.
I frequently used to meet the girl I called Beatrice.
I felt no emotion on seeing her, but I was often sensible of a harmony of sentiment, which seemed to say:
we are connected, or rather, not you and I, but your picture and I; you are a part of my destiny.
My longing for Max Demian was again eager. I had had no news of him for several years.
On one occasion only I had met him in the holidays.
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