I have not blamed books; I blame even less examples. I believe, my dear, only in inner temptation. I do not for a moment deny that the examples overwhelmed me, but not in the way you might imagine. I was terrified. I do not say that I was outraged— that is too simple a feeling. I believed I was outraged. I was a scrupulous young boy, full of what are called the noblest sentiments. I attached an almost neurotic importance to physical purity, probably because, without knowing it, I also attached a great deal of importance to the body; indignation, therefore, seemed to me natural; and anyway, I needed a word to designate what I was feeling. I know now that it was really fear. I have always been afraid, with an undefined, ceaseless fear, a fear of something which I imagined might be monstrous and which would paralyze me in advance. From that time on, the object of this fear was precise. It was as if I had just discovered a contagious disease spreading around me and, even though I pretended the contrary, was fully aware that it could touch me. I knew, confusedly, that such things existed; no doubt I did not imagine them quite this way, or (since I must tell you everything) my instinct, at the time of my studies, was less aroused. Before, I had imagined these things as rather vague acts, which had taken place in some other time or which happened elsewhere, but which had no reality for me. Now I saw them everywhere. At night, in my bed, I suffocated thinking of them; I genuinely thought that I was suffocating from disgust. I did not know that disgust is one of the forms of obsession and that, if one longs for something, it is easier to think of it with horror than not to think of it at all. I thought of it continually. Most of those I suspected were probably not guilty, yet I came to suspect everyone. I was used to examining my conscience; I should have suspected myself. Naturally, I did nothing of the kind. It was impossible for me to imagine myself, without any actual proof, as having sunk to the level of my own disgust; and I continue to believe I was different from the others.

A moralist would not have seen any difference. And yet it seems to me that I was not like the others and even that I was worth rather more than they. First of all, because I had scruples, and because those I am telling you about certainly had none whatever. Then, because I loved beauty, because I loved it exclusively, and because it had restricted my choice, which was not their case at all. Finally, because I was more particular, or, if you will, more refined. It was precisely those refinements that deceived me. I took for virtue what is only squeamishness, and the one scene I witnessed by chance would surely have shocked me much less if the actors in it had been more attractive.