Having made you my own genius, my will power, and my fortune, you required, in the blindness of an inexhaustable greed, your entire existence. You took it.
I had always thought that my giving up to you in small things meant nothing: that when a great moment arrive I could reassert my will-power in its natural superiority. It was not so. At the great momnet my will-power completely failed me. In life there's really no small or great thing. All things are of equal value or of equal size.
My habit -- due to indifference chiefly at first -- or giving up to you in everything had become insensible a real part of my nature. Without me knowing it, it had stereotyped my temperament to one permanent and fatal mood.
"Failure is to form habits."
Of course I should have got rid of you. I should have shaken you out of my life.
Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is conversation...and between two people of widely different culture the only common basis possible is the lowest level.
As though my life, whatever it has seems to myself or others, had all the while been a Symphony of Sorrow, passing through its thythmically-linked movements to its certain resolution.