Book: Scapegoat

How important is it that I failed? Not my environment, my little world, not the few friends who think they know me, not someone who gives me a job, not students who listen to my lectures, which does not serve in the British Museum, who kindly are telling me "good morning" or "good afternoon", and not so well-mannered, well-intentioned, but what a boring London shadows, among which he lived and produced your livelihood, law - abiding, quiet, pedantic and smug the individual thirty-eight years. No, not them, and my inner being, my "I" that is clamoring for release. How it looks at my pathetic life? Who is it, that creature and where it came from, what desire, what desire occur to him that I could not say. I'm so used to restrain him, he did not know of his habits; he may have a cold heart, a sarcastic laugh, a short temper and brash language. Not it lives in a Studio littered with books flat, not it's waking up every morning knowing that he has nothing - no family, no relatives, no friends, no interests that absorbed him entirely, anything that could serve as a life goal or anchor, nothing but the infatuation of the French history and the French language, which - by happy coincidence - allows me to earn a living. Maybe if I hadn't kept him locked in my chest, it would have laughed, rampaged, fought and lied. Perhaps it would suffer, perhaps hated, probably, anybody would not show mercy. It would steal, kill... or give all the power struggle for a noble though hopeless, to love humanity and to practice faith, claiming the same divinity of God and people. Whatever its nature, it has been awaiting in the wings, hiding under the guise of colorless pale man that sat now in the Church of the blessed virgin, waiting for the rain to subside, finished the day will come to a predestined end leave, will come the autumn and it again for another year, for another period of time take prisoner the daily routine of ordinary, uneventful London life. The question was how to unlock the door. How to release the other?