I have been alone here for so long.
Alone, with only my books and my memories. From time to time I compare my recent writing with my older material. It is important -- it is crucial -- that my skills not deteriorate. And, alone here, I could so easily lose my grasp on my abilities.
Or, more simply, lose my grasp.
I've been alone for so long … and nothing terrifies me so much as the thought of losing my sanity.
Would I know if it were happening? I didn't recognize madness when I saw it in my own family. I realized that my father was unbalanced, simply because I was able to see that this was how he had been from our first meeting. But my sons -- how could I have failed to see Achenar's gradual descent into madness, Sirrus's increasing self-obsession?
In hindsight, of course, all becomes clear. But the changes were so gradual, I never recognized them. And so I look over my old writings, comparing them to what I wrote today and yesterday, always wondering -- how will I know when the changes have begun? How will I know when the deterioration has become too great?
How will I know when it is time to stop?
I can't avoid the thought -- what happened to my father and my sons could so easily happen to me. Perhaps it's a familial trait. Or a D'ni characteristic -- the heritage that Gehn thought his greatest strength could as easily be a weakness.
And if this madness, this thirst for glory and power, is indeed an inherited frailty -- then I know what has protected me from it. What has anchored me to sanity, all these years.
My Catherine, my love, are you still alive?
Sometimes I think I would give my soul or my eyes or my Art to hold her in my arms for one moment.
If she were here, I would trust her judgment more than I do my own. If ever she said to me, "Atrus, it's time for you to stop writing" -- I would put my pen down without a moment's hesitation.
Have I the right to go on with this work, if I harbor any doubts at all about my mental balance?
I no longer notice the Myst book, open in front of me. For how many years has it sat there? Unchanging. Useless. No more to be seen than the wall, or a knot in the wood of my desk.
Until now. Without warning -- there is a shadow. Movement. A face.
For a single heart-frozen instant I think, hope, pray it might be hers.
No. A stranger's. Hazy in the poor connection of this damaged book, and dim in the gray light of the fireplace room. Looking almost as startled as I feel.
I've been alone for so long, my voice sounds strange in my own ears:
"Who the devil are you?"
