Labor, by sending its fruits out into the world, places our vital force at the disposal of others. The work which I have fashioned goes out among men, and yet I am left undisturbed in my solitude and concealment.
Man's work leaves him. It seems to me that I once met with the same idea in Ottilia's journal.
The dog is the friend and confidant of solitary man. Lonely, deserted spots, like this, aid one to appreciate his faithfulness, for he fails not to give notice of every unwonted occurrence.
I often rush to the window when the dog barks--who knows what stranger may have come?
Suppose the intendant or Gunther were suddenly to come, and ask me to follow them back into the world?
The very thought makes me tremble.
Would I be obliged to obey?