Critical Investigations

Shall I always torment myself and will my mind never, 0 Lord, come to rest in any certainty? Like an invalid turning over in his bed in'search of steep, I am restless from morning till night, and at night my anxiety awakens me. I am anxious to know what I shall be; I do not even know what I want to be, but I do know that I must choose. I should like to progress on safe and sure roads that lead only to the point where I have decided to go. But I don't know; I don't know what I ought to want. I am aware of a thousand possibilities in me, but I cannot resign myself to want to be only one of them. And every moment, at every word I write, at each gesture I make, I am terrified at the thought that this is one more ineradicable feature of my physiognomy becoming fixed: a hesitant impersonal physiognomy, an amorphous physiognomy, since I have not been capable of choosing and tracing its contours confidently

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