“At the age of twenty-one I began gradually to remark that I was not somehow like my comrades, that I had no pleasure in male occupations, that smoking, drinking, and card-playing gave me little satisfaction, and that I had a real death-horror of a brothel. And, as a matter of fact, I had never been in one, as on every occasion under some pretext or other I have succeeded in stealing off. I now began to think about myself; I felt myself frightfully desolate, miserable and unfortunate, and longed for a friend of the same nature as myself—yet without dreaming that there could be other such men. At the age of twenty-two I came to know a young man who at last cleared up my mind about sexual inversion and those affected with it, since he—an Urning, like myself—had fallen in love with me. The scales fell from my eyes, and I bless the day which brought light to me.… Towards woman in her sexual relation I feel a real horror, which the exercise of all my strongest powers of imagination would not avail to overcome; and indeed, I have never attempted to overcome it, since I am quite persuaded of the fruitlessness of such an attempt, which to me appears sinful and unnatural.”—Krafft-Ebing, “Psychopathia Sexualis,” 7th edition, “case” No. 122, p. 291. Stuttgart, 1892.
“I can no longer exist without men’s love; without such I must ever remain at strife with myself.… If marriage between men existed I believe I should not be afraid of a life-long union—a thing which with a woman seems to be something impossible.… Since, however, this kind of love is reckoned criminal, by its satisfaction I can be at harmony with myself but never with the world, and necessarily in consequence must ever be somewhat out of tune; and all the more so because my character is open, and I hate lies of all kinds. This torment, to have always to conceal everything, has forced me to confess my anomaly to a few friends, of whose understanding and reticence I am sure. Although oftentimes my condition seems to me sad enough, by reason of the difficulty of satisfaction and the general contempt of manly love, yet I am often just a little proud on account of having these anomalous feelings. Naturally, I shall never marry—but this seems to me by no means a misfortune, although I am fond of family life, and up to now have passed my time only among my own relations. I live in the hope that later I shall have a permanent loved one; such indeed I must have, else would the future seem gray and drear, and every object which folk usually pursue—honour, high position, etc.—only vain and unattractive.
“Should this hope not be fulfilled, I know that I should be unable, permanently and with pleasure, to give myself to my calling, and that I should be capable of setting aside everything in order to gain the love of a man. I feel no longer any moral scruples on account of my anomalous leaning, and generally have never been troubled because I felt myself drawn to youths.… Up to now it has only seemed to me bad and immoral to do that which is injurious to another, or which I would not wish done to myself, and in this respect I can say that I try as much as possible not to infringe on the rights of others, and am capable of being violently roused by any injustice done to others.”—Ibid, p. 249, “case” No. 110 (official in a factory, age 31).
“My thoughts are by no means exclusively of the body or morbidly sensual. How often at the sight of a handsome youth does a deeply enthusiastic mood come upon me, and I offer a prayer, so to speak, in the glorious words of Heine—”Du bist wie eine Blume, so hold, so schön, so rein“.… Never has a young man yet guessed my love for him, I have never corrupted or damaged the morals of one, but for many have I here and there smoothed their pathway; and then I stick at no trouble and make sacrifices such as I can only make for them.
“When thus I have a chance to have a loved friend near me, to teach, to support and help, when my unconfest love finds a loving response (though naturally not sexual), then all the unclean images fade more and more from my mind. Then does my love become almost platonic, and lifts itself up—only to sink again in the mire, when it is deprived of its proper activity.
“For the rest, I am—and I can say it without boasting—not one of the worst of men. Mentally more sensitive than most average folk, I take interest in everything that moves mankind. I am kindly-disposed, tender, and easily moved to pity, can do no injury to any animal, certainly not to a human being, but on the contrary am active in a human-friendly way, where and however I can.
“Though then before my own conscience I cannot reproach myself, and though I must certainly reject the judgment of the world about us, yet I suffer greatly. In very truth I have injured no one; and I hold my love in its nobler activity for just as holy as that of normally disposed men, but under the unhappy fate that allows us neither sufferance nor recognition, I suffer often more than my life can bear.”—Ibid, p. 268, “case” No. 114.
“To depict all the misery, all the unfortunate situations, the constant dread of being found out in one’s peculiarity and of becoming impossible in society—to give an idea of all this is truly more than pen or words can compass. The very thought, so soon as it arises, of losing one’s social existence and of being rejected by everybody is more torment than can be imagined. In such a case, everything, everything would be forgotten that one had ever done in the way of good; in the consciousness of his lofty morality every normally disposed man would puff himself up, however frivolously he might really have acted in the matter of his love. I know many such normal folk whose unworthy conception of their love is indeed hard for me to understand.”—Ibid, p. 269.
“The torturing images of betrayed love prevent my sleeping, so that I am forced, now and again, to have recourse to chloral. My dreams are only a continuation of actual life, and just as painful. How all this will end I really know not; but I suppose these root-emotions must take their own course.… The only reasonable end of the struggle is Death.”—A. Moll, “Conträre Sexualempfindung,” 2nd edition, p. 123 (quotation from a letter).