"Poor, unformed, mad Bertha—what a foolish dream it was to think I could complete her, form her, so that she, in turn, could give me . . . what? That was the question. What was I searching for from her? What did I lack? Did I not have the good life? To whom can I complain that my life has led irrevocably into an ever-narrowing chute? Who can comprehend my torment, my sleepless nights, my flirtation with suicide? After all, haven’t I everything one could wish: money, friends, family, a beautiful and charming wife, renown, respectability? Who will comfort me? Who refrain from asking the obvious question: 'What more can you want?'"
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