My mother concentrated upon me all her thoughts and cares. Her life was
merged in my life. Such relations between parents and children are not
always good for the children ... they are more apt to be injurious.
Moreover I was my mother's only child ... and only children generally
develop irregularly. In rearing them the parents do not think of
themselves so much as they do of them.... That is not practical. I did
not get spoiled, and did not grow obstinate (both these things happen
with only children), but my nerves were unstrung before their time; in
addition to which I was of rather feeble health--I took after my mother,
to whom I also bore a great facial resemblance. I shunned the society of
lads of my own age; in general, I was shy of people; I even talked very
little with my mother. I was fonder of reading than of anything else,
and of walking alone--and dreaming, dreaming! What my dreams were about
it would be difficult to say. It sometimes seemed to me as though I were
standing before a half-open door behind which were concealed hidden
secrets,--standing and waiting, and swooning with longing--yet not
crossing the threshold; and always meditating as to what there was
yonder ahead of me--and always waiting and longing ... or falling into
slumber. If the poetic vein had throbbed in me I should, in all
probability, have taken to writing verses; if I had felt an inclination
to religious devoutness I might have become a monk; but there was
nothing of the sort about me, and I continued to dream--and to wait.