When I spoke to the doctor about my weakness for smoking, he told me
to begin my analysis by tracing the growth of that habit from the
beginning.
“Write away!” he said, “and you will see how soon you begin to get a
clear picture of yourself.”
I think I can write about smoking here, at my table without sitting
down to dream in that arm-chair. I don’t know how to begin. I must
invoke the aid of all those many cigarettes I have smoked, identical
with the one I have in my hand now.
I have just made a discovery. I had quite forgotten that the first
cigarettes I ever smoked are no longer on the market. They were made
first in 1870 in Austria and were sold in little cardboard boxes
stamped with the double-headed eagle. Wait a minute! Suddenly several
people begin to collect round one of those boxes; I can distinguish
their features and vaguely remember their names, but this unexpected
meeting does not move me in any way. I must try and look into it more
closely. I will see what the arm-chair can do. No, now they have faded
away and changed into ugly, mocking caricatures.