The Life of the Fly 



and wretched. There is no one left with 

 whom I can sit up and thresh the subject out 

 in exhilarating discussion. There is no one 

 near me to understand me, no one who can 

 even passively oppose his ideas to mine and 

 take part in the conflict whence the light will 

 spring, even as a spark is born of the concus- 

 sion of two flints. When a difliculty arises, 

 steep as a cliff, there is no friendly shoulder 

 to support me in my attempt to climb it. 

 Alone, 1 have to cling to the roughness of the 

 jagged rock, to fall, often, and pick myself 

 up, covered with bruises, and renew the as- 

 sault; alone, I must give my shout of triumph, 

 without the least echo of encouragement, 

 when, reaching the summit and broken in the 

 effort, I am at last allowed to see a little way 

 beyond. 



My mathematical campaign will cost me 

 much stubborn thought: I am aware of this 

 after the first few lines of my book. I am 

 entering upon the domain of the abstract, 

 rough ground that can only be cleared by the 

 insistent plough of reflection. The black- 

 board, excellent for the curves of analytical 

 geometry studied in my friend's company, is 

 now neglected. I prefer the exercise-book, 

 a quire of paper bound in a cover. With this 

 306 



