I weep for you with all the letters of the alphabet

that made your hopeful songs. I saw how reason spent

itself in vain for hope, how you strove against regret—

and all the while your hearts were rent

to bits, like ragged prayer books … And so I tell

your merits, have always looked to your defense, not to justify

for pity of your deaths, but for what you were when all the space

of Russia sustained you still, and you lived your deathly lie:

Marranos—your deepest self denies your face.

… an invisible force was crushing him. He could feel its weight, its hypnotic power; it was forcing him to think as it wanted, to write as it dictated. This force was inside him; it could dissolve his will and cause his heart to stop beating … Only people who have never felt such a force themselves can be surprised that others submit to it. Those who have felt it, on the other hand, feel astonished that a man can rebel against it even for a moment—with one sudden word of anger, one timid gesture of protest.