With scholarship on the agenda, I was on the verge of pointing out that social activities does not suit me - and hence both I and my supervisor were to take for granted my withdrawal from the competition. And nor do I seem to want to pertain to 'society', conceived of as a set of groups, where by belonging to whichever one finds eternal comfort. From childhood onwards, I have thought it deplorable to like things other delight in, fear things others are scared of, study things others take up. What made me so different and what did I see that may have been taken up as a reason to abstain from such relations? A question I could not allow to be left unanswered, with the actual answer being so simple. I was smart.

But what use is there of smartness when the ability to understand - anyone, surely, can cope with this task - is corrupted. The understanding, which is totally unaccompanied by relating, by creating, by interpreting even? Bad for me. But even worse for the multitude. I have good memory for them, regardless of interpretations. I have a sense of them, if not of how they talked about and wrote about. The suspicion, which I possess beforehand of any one, before they reveal themselves to me, is the only thing that can be, therefore, altered - but all the same, I, without ever recalling what they were saying, would always recall what they meant. And dreams of them, that I may have, become the only witnesses to tell of vanity and dignity. I trust these cryptic accounts to become the underpinnings of my practical and my systematic. In accepting that not remembering the answer was also the answer, I busted what others think of as unknowing. Not remembering, which contains the relevance, even without wording, is a real want, a fever. Gods know I always needed to relate - and I still feel the need today.