August 21, 1911
I am immoral, in and of myself. A clear sign of this is that I have no memory. The moral character remembers everything, and he is either not ashamed of himself, able to look at himself without disgust and able to respect himself, or he does something with his shame and disgust in order to be rid of them. That is hard, and it hurts. He kills it. He kills his shame and disgust.
I forget everything, everything.
Have I not forgotten my good, naive friend R.? I see some vague face, but is it him? Do you still live and, perhaps, remember me pityingly, and full of love? I am grateful--I have forgotten. You belong to the innocent and the believing, and my head falls low, blushes, mutters something quietly--and you console me. Quiet, tender words. Are we permitted to forget words of consolation? I have forgotten them, forgotten everything. And what does A. B. want from me--be he living or dead?
I am immoral. Am I afraid, ashamed? What am I afraid of when I know the answer, or more properly, when I know that I will never answer, and will only wait the more. I don’t know from shame. A burning mark of Cain! I see, you can leave peacefully with the mark of Cain.
I live in unworth, and every moment of my life is a blasphemy. I am fated but one moment of piety: the moment of my free death. I don’t want it. I’m too happy.
mir iz azoy gut | מיר איז אַזױ גוט
That’s also declamation. Why don’t I do it? I have reached self-consciousness as to my immorality, my baseness--so why don’t I do it?