Man, of himself, is pure and unsullied, and out of him flows the world. There lies the secret which I shall not name.
It makes me happy to think that I am to go still higher; further up the mountain, where it is even quieter and more lonely than here. I feel as if something were calling me there. It is neither a voice nor a sound. I know not what it is, and yet it calls me, draws me, allures me, with its: "Come! come!"--Yes, I am coming!
I know that I am not dying. I would sooner doubt that I am living. The world is no longer an enigma to me.
From my mountain height I look down on those I have wronged. They are my father, my queen, and, worst of all, myself!
Of all things in this world, untruth is the surest to avenge itself. When I wrote to the king, from the convent, I vaunted my truthfulness and yet, at the same time, I was thoroughly untruthful. I aimed at bringing about an act of freedom and yet, at heart, my only desire was to write to him and impress him by my love of liberty. I felt proud of my opposition to popular opinion, and hoped thus to show him that I was his strong friend. He declined my proffered advice, and yet it was I who again opened the convents.
Falsehood avenges itself.