Throughout my life, in every situation and in every social circumstance, everyone has always seen me as an intruder. Or at least as a stranger. Whether among relatives or acquaintances, I’ve always been regarded as an outsider. I’m not suggesting that this treatment was ever deliberate. It was due, rather, to a natural reaction in the people around me.

Everyone everywhere has always treated me kindly. Rare is the man like me, I suspect, who has caused so few to raise their voice, wrinkle their brow, or speak angrily or askance. But the kindness I’ve been shown has always been devoid of affection. For those who are closest to me I’ve always been a guest, and as such treated well, but always with the kind of attention accorded to a stranger and with the lack of affection that’s normal for an intruder.

I don’t doubt that this attitude in other people derives mainly from some obscure cause intrinsic to my own temperament. Perhaps I have a communicative coldness that makes others automatically reflect my unfeeling manner.

By nature I quickly strike up acquaintances. People are friendly to me right away. But I never receive affection. I’ve never been shown devotion. To be loved has always seemed impossible to me, like a stranger calling me by my first name.

I don’t know if I should regret this, or if I should accept it as an indifferent destiny which there’s no reason to regret or accept. I’ve always wanted to be liked. It always grieved me that I was treated with indifference. Left an orphan by Fortune, I wanted – like all orphans – to be the object of someone’s affection. This need has always been a hunger that went unsatisfied, and so thoroughly have I adapted to this inevitable hunger that I sometimes wonder if I really feel the need to eat.

Whatever be the case, life pains me.

Other people have someone who is devoted to them. I’ve never had anyone who even thought of being devoted to me. Others are doted on; I’m treated nicely.

I know I have the capacity to stir respect, but not affection. Unfortunately I’ve never done anything that would justify, for others, the respect they initially feel, and so they never come to truly respect me.

Sometimes I think I must enjoy suffering. But I know I’d really prefer something else.

I don’t have the qualities of a leader or of a follower. Nor even those of a contented man, which are the ones that count when the others are missing.

Other people, less intelligent than I, are stronger. They’re better at carving out their place in life; they manage their intelligence more effectively. I have all the qualities it takes to exert influence except for the knack of actually doing it, or even the will to want to do it. Were I ever to fall in love, I wouldn’t be loved back.

All I have to do is want something for it to perish. My destiny lacks the strength to be lethal in general, but it has the weakness of being lethal in whatever specifically concerns me.