All created things, suns and planets, seem to revolve round him, and he a point of darkness, not of light.

He seems to float self-poised in the centre of the boundless nothing, upon an ell-broad slab of stone-- and yet not even on that: for the very ground on which he stands he does not feel.

He does not feel the mist which wets his cheek, the blood which throbs within his veins.

He only is; and there is none beside.
Horrible thought! Permitted but to few, and to them--thank God!--but rarely.

For two minutes of that absolute self-isolation would bring madness; if, indeed, it be not the very essence of madness itself.
There he stood; he knew not how long; without motion, without thought, without even rage or hate, now--in one blank paralysis of his whole nature; conscious only of self, and of a dull, inward fire, as if his soul were a dark vault, lighted with lurid smoke.
* * * * * What was that?
He started: shuddered--as well he might.