But as far as I was concerned I wanted the truth. I must have it. For the sake of revenge? What folly! Revenge on whom? On my favoured rivals? They did but make use of their prerogative as males! On my wife? Did I not say one ought not to be small-minded? And to hurt the mother of my darlings? How could I do it?
But I wanted to know; I wanted to know everything. I determined to examine my life, carefully, tactfully, scientifically; to make use of all the resources of psychology: suggestion, thought-reading, mental torture—none should be neglected; I determined to probe the deepest depths, not even despising the well-worn, old-fashioned means of burglary, theft, interception of letters, forged signatures....
I determined to make the most searching investigations.... Was that monomania, the paroxysm of rage of a lunatic? It is not for me to say.
I appeal to the reader for a verdict after a careful study of my confession. Perhaps he will find in it elements of the physiology of love, some light on the pathology of the soul, or even a strange fragment of the philosophy of crime.
September 1887—March 1888.
[CONCLUDING REMARKS OF THE AUTHOR]
This is a terrible book, I fully admit it, and I regret that I ever wrote it.
How did I come to write it?
I had to wash my corpse before it was laid in its coffin.