I am accustomed to wandering in the "forest of symbols" and I understand the symbolism of a word as readily as I understand that of a kiss.
Are we to trust our intellect in this matter when we know with certainty that this reason of ours derives from culture and worships culture as naturally as an undistinguished slave prostrates himself before the master who has improved his lot? The "cultural heritage" weighs upon the personality with the weight of sixty atmospheres and more, but because of its temptations it is a yoke that lies lightly. I know too much, and what I know weighs upon me. Proven facts by the million, so many unbreakable threads, imprison me in their net. I do not need them in love or in sorrow, it is not through their help that, amidst grave errors and unexpected successes, I grope toward an understanding of my destiny. It is not them I shall recall in my final hour.