t I am certain I did. Why, certain? Because my logic establishes the
fact. Still, I would feel better about something, if my memory were more
docile. But what is memory? The soul of dead illusion. Since it
withholds itself, I will create a memory.

"There was a lamp shining over my head. I was walking. And then I stood
still. Oh, yes, shadows. I grew eloquent with shadows. And she appeared
in the midst of this eloquence. My hands choked her. She had followed me
into the street and I choked her. But I do not remember this. At least,
the thing grows elusive and unsatisfactory. Why? Ah, the snow covers me.
I will cover my confusion with a sigh like the snow.

"No, I see the thing now. Was she ever real? There were gypsy wagons and
an old man. A camp fire and this girl with the green and orange shawl.
Yes, these were realities. But how do I know? Hm, I place my finger on
the sore spot. There is a point where reality and unreality meet. And
this point has vanished from my mind. I pursue it. A matter of
remarkable importance. It evades me; therefore I will arbitrarily locate
it. The point between reality and unreality is the arc lamp in the
street. Up to that point Rita was real. I killed her at that point and
she became unreal. This statement cures me. Nevertheless, my sanity is a
myth. I have invented it, by arbitrarily identifying the moment of its
departure. But it is better that way than to blunder on without knowing
how mad I am or whether I am mad at all, or whether I ever have been
mad. A lie believed in is an antidote for confusion.

"It doesn't matter. Excellent logic. She is destroyed. And I am none the
worse, except for a disillusion more--and an uncertainty. My uncertainty
is removed by logic, or at least concealed by it. And I am sane. I
return to life--another Napoleon walking backwards. My experiments have
led me around a circle. I meet myself where I started, but naked of
hopes.

"It snows and I am amiable. Something has happened. My hatred, where is
that? This street is pleasant. The light of the snow cheers me. I am, in
fact, buoyant. Ah, I understand. A balloon come down to earth and vain
once more of its buoyancy--its ability to bob along the pavement.

"It is curious. I delude myself that I am thinking. But my alleged
thoughts do not further my ideas. They merely convert them into little
pictures easy for me to understand and diverting to look at.

"Still, if I am happy ... but how does one know one