But see here, mother, this is what I have done: will you forgive me this:
I have invoked the truth, I have taken pains, I have climbed up, I have striven, I have had radiant moments, days of flowering, and happiness was the same age as myself. Mother, have you forgiven me this?
I am not better-hearted than you, but it is the life about me which demands that one do more, love more. This is what differentiates and actually divides us.
Everything that sings and invites one out into the good old world, the "out-of-doors," seems pernicious to you. What you would have wanted was to stand barring the door with your arms crossed and refuse me the fresh air. You yourself avaricious but destitute would have liked me to salute your avarice and praise your destitution. "Will you set yourself up in judgment over your father and mother?"
Mother, when children grow up, their eyes open.... And if my son sees me fallen lower than his love, lower than my own love, let him accuse and condemn me.
No, it will not always be the same thing, as you say, for that depends neither upon him nor you, but only upon me. You do not know, you do not know!
With its expiring breath the lamp sends out a blackish, leaping light, which splashes shadows on the pendulous surroundings.
I had never noticed the puffiness of her lids, nor the sharpness of her cheekbones, nor the drooping corners of her tender mouth, nor the flatness and thinness of her hair, which used to be full and flaming as my own. Never before had I remarked the tragic similarity between the dead and the sleeping. And I did not know that immutable Truth sometimes has the ring of a curse and makes you cry, and yet is Truth.
The scissors gliding to the floor awakened her with a start. "What, still crying?"