There is no question you get pumped up by the recognition. Then a self-loathing sets in when you realise you're enjoying it.

Being here alone with nothing to do, I've been thinking about myself too. Trying to understand why I hate myself so badly.

My ideal date would involve painful silence. My ideal date wouldn't involve me.

So, we have to get up and get pumped up for each day.

You will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible? Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no means badly composed . . . . It did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right — it really is vulgar and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than that is my making this remark now. But that's enough, or there will be no end to it; each step will be more contemptible than the last . . .

I am wretched. Destitute.