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My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad; and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation, and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy, and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe 去书内
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  • 用户718849 用户718849

    During my imprisonment, my father often heard me make the same claim. When I accused myself, he sometimes seemed to seek an explanation, while at others he treated it as the product of delirium—believing some such idea had struck my imagination during illness and lingered in my convalescence. I avoided explaining and stayed silent about the creature I’d created. I was convinced I’d be deemed mad, and that alone would have silenced me forever. Beyond that, I couldn’t bear to reveal a secret that would fill the listener with consternation, planting fear and unnatural horror in their heart. So I suppressed my desperate need for empathy, staying silent even when I longed to confide the fatal secret to the world. Yet words like those I’ve written would still burst out uncontrollably. I could offer no explanations, but their partial truth eased the burden of my mysterious grief.

    2025-06-02 喜欢(0) 回复(0)

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