But the true misfortune of those analytic and hyper-analytic modern people is that, though not believing in the result of their analysis, they have the invincible habit of inquiring into everything that goes on within themselves. It is the same with me. For some time I have been questioning myself how it is possible that a man absorbed by a great feeling should be able to be so watchful, so calculating about ways and means, and to account for everything as if somebody else did it for him. I could reply to it in this way: The man of the period reserves above everything part of himself to observe the other part. Besides, the whole activity of a mind full of forethought, of reflections apparently cool, stands eventually in proportion to the temperature of the feeling. The hotter this grows, the more cool reason is forced into service. I repeat, it is a mistake to represent love with bandaged eyes. Love does not suppress reason, as it does not suppress the breathing, or the beating of the heart,--it only subjugates it. Reason thereupon becomes the first adviser, the implement of war,--in other words, it plays the part of an Agrippa to a Caesar Augustus. It is holding all the forces in readiness, leads them into war, gains victories, and places the monarch on the triumphal car; it erects finally,--not a Pantheon, like the historical Agrippa,--but a Monotheon, where it serves its only divinity. In the microcosm called man, the part reason plays is a still greater one than that of chief commander,--for it reflects into infinite parts the consciousness of everything and of self,--as a collection of properly arranged mirrors reflect a given object infinitely. 1 June.