best one can hope for. I don't know ... If you've slept soundly at night the morning is exhilarating, I suppose. What kind of dreams do they have? What. do they think about when they walk along the street?
Money? Hardly—it couldn't only be that. I seem to have heard the theory advanced that human beings live in order to eat, but I've never heard anyone say that they lived in order to make money. No. And yet, in some instances. . . . No, I don't even know that. . . . The more I think of it, the less I understand. All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only one who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it?—I don't know. This was how I happened to invent my clowning. It was the last quest for love I was to direct at human beings. Although I had a mortal dread of human beings I seemed quite unable to renounce their society. I managed to maintain on the surface a smile which never deserted my lips; this was the accommodation I offered to others, a most precarious achievement performed by me only at the cost of excruciating efforts within. As a child I had absolutely no notion of what others, even members of my own family, might be suffering or what they were thinking. I was aware only of my own unspeakable fears and embarrassments. Before anyone realized it, I had become an accomplished clown, a child who never spoke a single truthful word. I have noticed that in photographs of me taken about that time together with my family, the others all have serious faces; only mine is
