From the seventh solitude. – One day the wanderer slammed a door shut behind him, came to a halt, and wept. Then he said: ‘This penchant and passion for what is true, real, non-apparent, certain – how it exasperates me! Why does this gloomy and earnest oppressor follow me of all people! I want to rest, but he won’t allow it. How many things seduce me to linger? Everywhere there are Armida’s gardens16 for me. Thus ever again I must tear myself away and feel another new bitterness in my heart! Once again I must lift my foot, this tired, wounded foot; and having to do so often makes me cast a wrathful glance back at the most beautiful thing that could not hold me – because it could not hold me!’