January 21, 1856.—Yesterday seems to
me as far off as though it were last year. My memory holds nothing
more of the past than its general plan, just as my eye perceives
nothing more in the starry heaven. It is no
more possible for me to
recover one of my days from the depths of memory than if it were a
glass of water
poured into a lake; it is not so much a lost thing as
a thing melted and fused; the individual has returned into
the
whole. The divisions of time are categories which have no power to
mold my life, and leave no more
lasting impression than lines traced
by a stick in water. My life, my individuality, are fluid, there is
nothing
for it but to resign one's self.
Amiel's Journal
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