‘During this period I was extremely nervous and irritable. I never had a moment’s peace. I was always looking for something hidden; everything seemed to me to be shrouded in mystery; I was alert to everything happening around me and at the same time I felt ill. I was waiting for something to be revealed; was in a state of constant suspense and anxiety in case I missed the moment of the revelation. I remember that I lost my appetite and looked so haggard that my mother began to worry about me. I sank into a peculiar kind of apathy regarding everyday affairs. I began to neglect my studies and could not even summon up the energy to read. And then suddenly I would bury myself in some book and devour it passionately, not stopping until my head started to spin. At night I couldn’t fall asleep. From time to time I would be flooded by a wave of such terrible heat that I had to fling off my bedclothes. Then I would fall into a nervous, restless sleep, and have strange, terrifying dreams, and wake up the next morning worn out and depressed without the least desire for anything. Often I would wander aimlessly about in byways and alleys where I had never been before, straying and searching for something undefinable, until it grew dark and I had to go home. At that time I was once attacked by a gang of Christian boys. I fought desperately, as if I was fighting for my life. But I was alone and I was defeated. When I came home battered and beaten, I felt a curious satisfaction, a kind of content and peace of mind. Once I was hit by a stone — here, you see?’ Gurdweill pointed to his left temple, next to the ear. ‘There’s still a little scar. You can feel it with your fingers. In the course of time, when they saw that I wasn’t afraid of them and knew how to use my fists, they left me alone. And I remember, too, that I once took a thick darning needle I found at home, and rolled up my sleeve and stuck it into the flesh above my wrist, slowly, half a centimetre deep, in two or three places, and as I did so I felt a strange pleasure, and a kind of revenge. Then I washed away the blood and stuck some of my father’s cigarette papers on the wounds. I only did this three times, by the way. The sight of the blood made me nauseated, I felt giddy and faint, and I stopped. I threw the needle away and adopted a new, bloodless means of torture. I would light a match and burn the tip of my little finger, I don’t know why precisely that one, burn it until I couldn’t stand the pain. Then I would dip my charred finger in ink: a popular remedy for burns.