Sculpture by Emile-Edmond Peynot

How had it happened exactly? by Friedrich Hager

He hadn't turned his thought or his gaze from the small form sleeping beside him, all night. It wasn't until morning that he glanced at his own sheetburied body and shuddered. It was as if he were staring at flesh that had never before existed for him, that existed apart from whatever remained of his tired comprehension and, yet, it smothered him completely. In fact, the word "flesh" didn't suggest itself at all-what obtruded and penetrated and suffocated him was nameless, was terrifying and was, above all, accusing. He shuddered and felt hopelessly abased.

There had been so many opportunities he had refused to seize-so many years of Virtuous Restraint-that it seemed impossible he'd finally allowed his sex to seduce him. However, the already-troubled breathing so close to his own riveted him into belief. He could no longer, belief told him, boast of an untouched position in a world that submitted about him. His writings could no longer advocate the barest morality and, indeed, it should now be impossible to let others read his words at all, unless he let his words also confess his guilt.

Not to write-as inconceivable as the proposition seemed, he knew precisely what it entailed. No more the gossamer-thin meaning which was all he had. No more the bridge his writing made from World to Self. There would no longer be the knowing esteem of other artists, nor even the empty adulation that always pleased but embarrassed him. No, all these anodynes would die, leaving the persistence of a pain which would demand relief in some way-and it would be this way, against his very self.

How had it happened exactly?

He recalled having worked unceasingly for days on the novel and that it was the most difficult to draw out pieces of writing he had ever attempted. Then, last night, he finally reached the block that had been thrashing to the

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