A Man like me, exactly like me, like me to the last detail: myself.
I looked at him, and I was not sure whether he or I were I. And I
was not sure whether we were two men, or one man in two persons. I
raised--how painfully!--an arm; and I succeeded in raising it because
now it had become as light as gauze. I raised an arm, I say, to see
whether the other Man, the other I, would be forced, by what I did, to
do the same, to raise an arm that is, the arm that I raised. But no! I
moved: and he did not. So then ... there were two of us: I and a Man:
two different men, separate, distinct Beings.
Distinct, separate, and yet, unquestionably, two parts of one whole, a
single whole; and all my flesh, all my wasted rarefied substance cried
out desiringly toward that other flesh, that other substance that had
been torn from me, “exteriorized” from me.
Another Man: a Man, and not a shadow, and not a ghost! No spectral
trappings; no sheets, no shrouds! Clothes! A riding suit, exactly
like my riding suit. I looked at the clothes I was wearing. I had just
bought them new. Now they were old, worn out, threadbare.... As old, as
worn, as threadbare as I myself!
Alas! Alas! Why, why am I writing still? I know that you who read will
not believe.... But I tell you I am not insane! Would a madman talk as
I talk? Another thing: I am about to die; and a man does not cross the
threshold of Eternity with falsehood on his lips.... Two good reasons
for not doubting my veracity....
Alas! Alas! I know ... I know ... why should I go on ...?
* * * * * * * * *
Nevertheless....