He was always feeling something in excess of where he was in the plot, and struggle and strategise as he might he could never get this thing under control so as to only the feel the kind of detached and reflective feelings that were provoked by a work of art. No, his life was decidedly not artistic, not in any way, and he would plunge into the mental noise of it under any pretext rather than remain quietly in his room, holding on to his untested freedom. But it was unbearable, after all this time to have remained so unresisting of every solicitation, and yet isolated and anachronistic, self-excluded. There was a craving for something more than the shadows and no truer faith than that which lived in such craving. Deep in his heart he believed in the world just as a child believes in the world of his loving parents, and it was this belief, always a few steps behind the dagger-point of the now, that kept him losing its war against reality.