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From my gigantic blunder I had the courage to extricate myself, renouncing the delights that absorb indolent others who declare the world an illusion and life an exertion. I donated large sums to various colleges to be expended in penetrating the mysterious science I failed in, then for years wandered over the world, aimless, melancholy, craving, ever searching the grand, supreme idea that I knew would reach me before peace.

India, that great field of abundant superstition, mildly restored my shattered energies. The occult science in its most malignant form attacked me. I was enchanted with fanatical proverbs tantalizing in their promise of what?—nothing.

I engaged a dwelling and furnished it up with barbaric splendor, then watched the subtle operations of the strange people I surrounded myself with. They possessed extraordinary imaginations and narrative powers, and, because it was impossible, I developed a keen desire to experience some of the delights these fanatics extolled.

Following instructions, I spent weeks in the mountains, inhaling dank vapors and camped in the wilderness, fasting for days, reading a book—for what purpose I never discovered—and ended it all as unimaginative as ever. I tried my utmost to become convinced of the supernatural, but never for an instant lost the knowledge I was an ass to so ardently pursue Folly, in her mock seriousness. I became shamed with the realization of the utter nonsense I permitted my intellect to roam in and the wild-eyed fanatics with their shrieks and convulsions and frenzied endeavors to convince, nauseated me when I discovered it was all acting, mere acting, and they were less sincere than I.