Ulrich was pleased that Agathe had listened without interrupting him, for he was not expecting an answer from her any more than from himself and was convinced that for the present no one could give the kind of answer he had in mind. Nevertheless, he did not fear for a moment that what he was talking about might be too difficult for her. He did not regard it as philosophizing or even as an unusual subject for conversation, any more than a very young person, whom he resembled in this situation, will allow difficulties of expression to dissuade him from finding everything simple when he is prompted to exchange views on the eternal question “Who are you? This is how it is with me.” He derived his conviction that his sister could follow him word for word not from thought but from her presence. His gaze rested on her face, and he felt unaccountably happy. This face with closed eyes gave not even a hint of recoil. It exerted a bottomless attraction on him; also in the sense of drawing him into a depth without end. Sinking into contemplation of this face, he found nowhere that ground sludge of dissolved resistances from which a man who has dived into love can push off to rise back up to the dry surface. But since he was accustomed to experience inclination toward a woman as a violently reversed dislike of the person, which—even though he disapproved of it—does offer a certain guarantee of not losing oneself, he was now alarmed by the pure inclination with which he was leaning curiously and ever more deeply toward her, almost as if yielding to the pull of vertigo, so that he soon drew back and from sheer happiness took refuge in a somewhat boyish prank to recall Agathe to everyday life: with the most gingerly touch he was capable of, he tried to open her eyes. Agathe opened them, laughing, and exclaimed: “Considering I’m supposed to be your self-love, you’re treating me rather roughly!”

This response was just as boyish as his attack, and their looks pressed against each other with playful exaggeration, like two boys who are ready for a scuffle but are laughing too hard to go through with it. But suddenly Agathe dropped this and asked seriously: “Do you know the myth Plato tells, based on some ancient tradition, that the gods divided the original human being into two parts, man and woman?” She had raised herself on an elbow and unexpectedly blushed, feeling a little foolish for having asked Ulrich whether he knew this story, which was probably widely known. So she quickly decided to forge ahead: “Now the unfortunate halves do all sorts of foolish things in order to join together again: This is written in all the schoolbooks for the higher grades; unfortunately, they don’t tell you why it can’t be done!”

“I can tell you that,” Ulrich joined in, happy to realize how exactly she had understood. “No one knows which of the many halves that are running around is the one he is lacking. He or she will grab one that seems to fit and make the most futile efforts to become one with it, until in the end it’s clear that this will not happen. If a child is born as a result, both halves will believe through several years of their youth that they’ve at least become one in their child; but that’s just a third half, which soon shows signs of trying to get away as far as possible from the other two and set out in search of a fourth. Thus the human race keeps on bisecting itself physiologically, and the intrinsic oneness stands like the moon outside the bedroom window.”