DESPITE THE STING of his temper, there had been something resolute about Joubert: his dogged nature, his dependable body, his old sailor’s ways, his indefatigable ethic of work and purpose. It was not so with Feuille. He was a man of feeble spirit and great appetite—a glutton, a squanderer, a débauché. If he did not hold grudges, as Joubert did, it was because of his prodigality. Even before the crossing, I had detected a dissipation in him. After it, I could not help but sink into its mire. I now had youth, good looks, education, talent, and even a little social standing, and yet in every other respect the man I was now was the inferior of the man I’d been. Where Joubert was resilient, Feuille was easily discouraged; where Joubert was vivacious, Feuille was sullen; where Joubert made friends, Feuille collected enemies; where Joubert was resourceful, Feuille was incapable and disorganized. Forever after, it was as if the part of me that had crossed over and the part of me that was already there were in constant battle with each other. I found myself the prisoner of impulses I could barely master.

During a crossing, one enters into a body and inherits its capacities and incapacities, its appetites and proclivities. But one also enters into a mind. When I crossed with Feuille, I brought with me all the memories I had accumulated in the course of my previous two lifetimes. I also inherited a corpus of new memories, the memories of this new me, all its pleasures and tribulations, its qualities and flaws. How much more frightened of pain was my new host than Joubert had ever been! And how much more in need of pleasure!