Where is Prince Myshkin?

I remember wishing, in a way, for this -- and the little celebrations I can now witness seem in spite of that to taunt my memory and the foreknowledge I had then. The thought that it's an unhappy mixture of the fictional siblings Varvara and Gavrila that still directs some of those inner dialogues -- this thought is distasteful, but: what to do? I'll not apply pragmatic rules here.

I am aware that there is a palliative strain of egotism that comes out meekly on occasion: its talent lies in registering the gravity and levity of a situation and judging a person's emotional state (always the other person's, only ever ironically one's own!) without displaying superiority. Without displaying. But then this isn't simply high-minded pity! I would like to hope and perhaps do.

This is -- well, that's the "issue" at hand I suppose. What? It's always a confused, broken light. The one you see in dark hallway light up minimally by the still darkish reflections in the mirror in the other room. The music in the other room too. The silhouettes almost glow.

Different, but connected:
It seems laudable, worthy, good to extend oneself to help another, even if that simply means saying to oneself with the assumption that one's thoughts translate into behaviour, posture, and even (often silent) interaction: "Oh, I hope she feels better soon. Oh, that sad look -- I wonder why she's not happy to be alive? Why she doesn't fall, smiling, into this blissful morning light?" Yes, it's usually women who strike me in this way. But maybe that's simply a reflection of the limitations of my sight.

And so one's thoughts wax pseudo-life-affirming and absurd, the hint of Empfindsamkeit lending them a temporary literary integrity, but it's short, this gift of time. Isn't it funny? Then these serious thoughts too are light.

The joy is always just a little elusive, a little thin too, and that weird distance that comes to light when one knowingly pities is there too when one knowingly admires, appreciates, and enjoys with reservation. Isn't it also a pity, directed at oneself?