I would have embraced and kissed the most implacable enemy. The butter, melting, hissed and spat, and the thought that the butter might sputter and make the flame gutter was so hilarious that I burst out laughing, though my fingers were burnt relighting the paper whenever the torch went out. In the flickering light I hummed arias from old operettas, paying no heed to the bitter smoke that made me gag, or the tears streaming down my cheeks. Standing up, I tripped and fell, crashing into a trunk on the floor; the bump on my head swelled to the size of an egg, but that only put me in a better humor (to the extent that that was possible). I giggled, choking in the searing smoke, which in no way lowered my spirits. I climbed into bed; it still hadn't been made, though this was already the afternoon. The maids responsible for such neglect-I thought of them as my very own children: nothing but sugary words and gushing baby talk came to my lips. It occurred to me that even if I were to suffocate here, that would be the most amusing, the most agreeable kind of death any man could ask for. This thought was so blatantly contrary to my nature, that it had a sobering effect. A curious dissociation arose within me. As before, my soul was filled with light and languor, an all-embracing tenderness, a love of everything that existed, while my hands simply itched to fondle and stroke someone-it didn't matter who-till in the absence of any such third person I began to caress my own cheeks and chuck myself fondly under the chin; my right hand proffered itself to my left for a hearty shake. Even the feet, trembling eagerly, wanted to join in. And yet, throughout all this, distress signals were flashing on in the depths of my being: "Something's wrong!" cried a far-off, tiny voice inside.