I’m worked up; but I don’t want to be, because that isn’t right. I want to feel that quiet rapture again, that fierce, nameless urge I used to feel when I stood in front of my books. I want to be seized again by the wind of wishes that blew from the colorful spines of the books, I want it to melt the heavy, dead block of lead that lies somewhere inside me, and to awaken within me again that impatience for the future, that elated joy in the world of ideas; I want it to bring back to me the lost eagerness of my youth.
