I have grey days and black moments. I am not happy. Even so, I know no one with whom I would change places; my heart shrinks at the thought of being this or that person among my acquaintance. No, I don’t want to be any one else. In my early youth I suffered much from not having good looks and, in my burning desire for good looks, thought myself a monster of ugliness. Now, of course, I know I look very much like everyone else. Not exactly a source of rejoicing, this, either. I am not particularly fond of myself, neither shell nor entrails. But I don’t want to be anyone else.