7. The Sickness unto Death Is Despair
Chapter Seven
A
To Despair Is the Sickness unto Death
A
Despair is a sickness of the spirit, of the self, and can thus be threefold: in despair not to be conscious of having a self (figurative despair); in despair not to want to be oneself; in despair to want to be oneself.
The human being is spirit. But what is spirit? Spirit is the self. But what is the self? The self is a relation that relates itself to itself, or, in the relation, it is that the relation relates itself to itself. The self is not the relation but that the relation relates itself to itself. The human being is a synthesis of infinitude and finitude, of the temporal and the eternal, of freedom and necessity—in short, a synthesis. A synthesis is a relation between two entities. Considered in this way, the human being is still not a self.
In the relation between two entities, the relation is the third entity as a negative unity, and the two entities relate to the relation and in the relation to the relation. Hence, under the category “soul,” the relation between soul and body is a relation. If, on the other hand, the relation relates itself to itself, then this is the positive third entity, and this is the self.
Such a relation that relates itself to itself—a self—must either have composed itself or been composed by another.
If the relation that relates itself to itself is composed by another, then the relation is certainly the third entity. But, then, this relation—the third entity—is yet again a relation and relates itself to what has composed the whole relation.
The self of the human being is such a derived, composed relation—a relation that relates itself to itself and, in relating itself to itself, relates itself to another. From this it follows that there can be two forms of despair proper. Had the self of the human being composed itself, then there could only be talk about one form—that of not wanting to be oneself, of wanting to get rid of oneself. But there could not be talk about wanting to be oneself in despair. That is to say, this formula is the expression for the dependence of the whole relation (of the self)—the expression for the fact that the self cannot come to or be in balance and rest by itself, but only, in relating itself to itself, by relating itself to that which has composed the entire relation. Yes, it is so far from the case that this second form of despair (to want to be oneself in despair) merely denotes a peculiar kind of despair that, on the contrary, all despair can ultimately be dissolved into and traced back to it. If, as he considers it, a despairing person is aware of his despair and does not talk meaninglessly about it as if it were something that happens to him (almost like when, in a nervous delusion, the one who suffers from dizziness talks about a weight on his head or that it is like something has fallen down on him, etc., the weight and the pressure are still not something external but an inverse reflection of the internal)—and now with all his power wants to extract the despair by himself and by himself alone: then he is still in despair and, with all his supposed effort, only works himself deeper into a deeper despair. Despair’s misrelation is not a simple misrelation but a misrelation in a relation that relates itself to itself and has been composed by another. Thus the misrelation in that relation that is for itself also reflects itself infinitely in the relation to the power that composed it.
This is, namely, the formula that describes the state of the self when despair is entirely rooted out: in relating itself to itself, and in wanting to be itself, the self is grounded transparently in the power that composed it.
B
The Possibility and Actuality of Despair
Is despair a virtue or a defect? Purely dialectically, it is both. If one were to stick to the abstract idea of despair, without thinking of someone in despair, then one would have to say: it is an immeasurable virtue. The possibility of this sickness is the human being’s virtue over against the animal, and this virtue distinguishes him in an entirely different way than walking upright. For it suggests the infinite uprightness or loftiness—that he is spirit. The possibility of this sickness is the human being’s virtue over against the animal; to be aware of this sickness is the Christian’s virtue over against the natural human being; to be healed from this sickness is the Christian’s blessedness.
Therefore it is an infinite virtue to be able to despair, and yet to be in despair is not only the greatest unhappiness and misery—no, it is perdition. The relation between possibility and actuality is not normally like this. If it is a virtue to be able to be this or that, then it is an even greater virtue to be that. In other words, being is a step up in relation to being able to be. As for despair, on the other hand, being is like a step down in relation to being able to be. As infinite as the virtue of possibility is, the fall is just as deep. Hence, in relation to despair, to not be in despair is a step up. Again, however, this categorization is ambiguous. Not being in despair is not the same as not being lame, blind, etc. If not being in despair means neither more nor less than not being that, then it is precisely to be in despair. Not being in despair must mean the annihilated possibility of being able to be in despair; if it is to be true that a person is not in despair, he must annihilate the possibility in every moment. The relation between possibility and actuality is not normally like this. For thinkers certainly say that actuality is annihilated possibility, but that is not entirely true: it is the completed, the active possibility. Here, on the other hand, the actuality (not to be in despair) is the impotent, annihilated possibility, which, for that reason, is a negation as well. Normally, actuality is a corroboration in relation to possibility; here it is a denial.
Despair is the misrelation in the relation of a synthesis that relates itself to itself. But the synthesis is not the misrelation; it is only the possibility. Or the possibility of the misrelation lies in the synthesis. Were the synthesis the misrelation, then despair would not exist at all; then despair would be something that lies in human nature as such. That is, it would not then be despair; it would be something that happened to the person—something he suffered, like a disease into which the person falls or like death, which is the lot of all things. No, to despair lies in the human being as such. Yet, if he were not a synthesis, he could not despair at all, and, if the synthesis were not originally from the hand of God in the proper relation, he could not despair either.
From where, then, does despair come? It comes from the relation in which the synthesis relates itself to itself, because God, who made the human being into the relation, lets it go from his hand, as it were—that is, inasmuch as the relation relates itself to itself. And therein—that the relation is spirit, is the self—therein lies the responsibility for all despair and for every moment that it exists, however much the person in despair talks about his despair as bad luck and however ingeniously he deceives himself and others by a confusion like that previously mentioned case of dizziness, with which despair, even if qualitatively different, has much in common. For, under the category “soul,” dizziness is what despair is under the category “spirit” and is pregnant with analogies to despair.
Hence, when the misrelation of despair has set in, is it then a matter of course that it continues? No, it is not a matter of course. If the misrelation continues, it does not follow from the misrelation but from the relation that relates itself to itself. That is to say, for every time the misrelation manifests itself, and in every moment it exists, it must be directed back to the relation. See, one talks about the fact that a person catches a sickness, for example, through carelessness. So, then, the sickness sets in, and from that moment it makes itself felt and is now an actuality, whose origin becomes more and more past. It would be both cruel and inhumane if one were to keep on saying again and again: “You, the sick person, are catching this sickness in this moment.” It would be as if one wanted, in every moment, to dissolve the sickness’s actuality into its possibility. It is true that he caught the sickness himself, but he did that only one time. The continuance of the sickness is a simple result of the fact that he once caught it himself; its progress cannot be ascribed to him as cause in every moment. He caught it himself, but one cannot say: “He is catching it himself.”
It is different with despair. Every actual moment of despair leads back to possibility; every moment he is in despair, he is catching it himself. It is constantly the present tense; in relation to actuality, nothing is done in the past. In every actual moment of despair, the despairing person bears in possibility all the past as something present. This is due to the fact that despair is a category of “spirit” and relates itself to the eternal in the human being. But he cannot get rid of the eternal—no, not in all eternity. He cannot throw it away once and for all; nothing is more impossible. In every moment that he does not have it, he must have thrown it or is throwing it away…but it comes again. That is, every moment he is in despair, he is catching despair. For despair does not follow from the misrelation but from the relation that relates itself to itself. And a person can get rid of the relation to himself as little as he can get rid of himself—what, incidentally, is one and the same thing, since the self is indeed the relation to oneself.
C
Despair Is: “The Sickness unto Death”
This concept of “the sickness unto death” must be taken in a particular way. It literally means a sickness whose end, whose outcome is death. Thus the expression “deadly sickness” is used synonymously with “sickness unto death.” Despair cannot be called the sickness unto death in that sense. Yet, Christianly understood, death itself is a passage into life. No earthly, bodily sickness is, as far as it goes, a sickness unto death from a Christian point of view. For death is undoubtedly the end of the sickness, but death is not the last thing. If there is to be talk about a sickness unto death in the strictest sense, it must be one where the last thing is death and where death is the last thing. And just this is despair.
Still, in another sense, despair is even more definitely the sickness unto death. That is to say, it is as far as possible from one literally dying from this sickness or from this sickness ending with bodily death. On the contrary, the agony of despair is precisely not to be able to die. In this way, it has more in common with the condition of the critically ill person, when he lies and is being drawn into death and cannot die. Thus to be sick unto death is to be unable to die, yet not as if there were hope about life. No, the hopelessness is that even the last hope of death is not there. When death is the greatest danger, one hopes for life. But when one comes to know the even more horrifying danger, one hopes for death. So, when the danger is so great that death has become the hope, then despair is the hopelessness of not even being able to die.
Despair, then, is the sickness unto death in this last sense—this agonizing contradiction, this sickness in the self, to die eternally, to die and yet not to die, to die death. For dying means that it is past, but to die death means to experience that dying. And if this is experienced for one single moment, then that is to experience it forever in turn. If a person were to die of despair like one dies of a disease, then the eternal in him—the self—would have to be able to die in the same sense as the body dies of disease. But this is an impossibility. The dying of despair constantly transforms itself into living. The despairing person cannot die. “As little as the dagger can slay thoughts” can despair consume the eternal—the self—that lies at the foundation of despair, whose worm does not die and whose fire cannot be extinguished. After all, despair is precisely a self-consuming, albeit a powerless self-consuming that cannot do what it wants to do. But what it wants is to consume itself—something it cannot do—and this impotence is a new form of self-consumption, in which despair is yet again unable to do what it wants: to consume itself. This is an intensification or the law of intensification. This is the infuriating thing, or it is the cold fire in despair—this gnawing, whose movement is constantly within, deeper and deeper into powerless self-consumption. That despair does not consume him is very far from being any comfort to the person in despair. It is just the opposite. This comfort is precisely the agony, is precisely what keeps the gnawing alive and life in the gnawing. For it is precisely over this issue—rather than over having despaired—that he despairs. But he does despair that he cannot consume himself, cannot get rid of himself, cannot become nothing. This is the intensified formula for despair, the rising fever in this sickness of the self.
A person in despair despairs over something. It looks like this for a moment, but it is only a moment. In the same moment, true despair shows itself, or despair in its truth shows itself. While he despaired over something, he actually despaired over himself and now wants to get rid of himself. Hence, when the power-hungry person, whose motto is “either Caesar or nothing at all,” does not become Caesar, he despairs over that. But this means something else—that he now cannot stand to be himself, precisely because he did not become Caesar. Therefore he does not actually despair over the fact that he did not become Caesar, but over himself that he did not become Caesar. This self, if it had become Caesar, would have satisfied his every desire (which, by the way, is just as despairing in another sense)—this self is now the most intolerable of all to him. In a deeper sense, what is intolerable to him is not that he failed to become Caesar; rather, what is intolerable to him is this self, which did not become Caesar. Or, even more correctly, what is intolerable to him is that he cannot get rid of himself. If he had become Caesar, then he would get rid of himself in despair. But now he did not become Caesar and cannot get rid of himself in despair. In essence, he is equally in despair. For he does not have his self; he is not himself. After all, in becoming Caesar, he would not have become himself but gotten rid of himself, and, by not becoming Caesar, he despairs over not being able to get rid of himself. It is, therefore, a superficial observation (from one who has probably never seen a person in despair, not even himself) when one says about a person in despair: “He is consuming himself”—as if this were his punishment. For that is precisely what he is in despair, and that is precisely what he cannot do to his agony, because something in the self that cannot burn or cannot be burned has caught fire from despair.
For that reason, to despair over something is still not actually despair. It is the beginning, or, as the physician says about a disease, it has still not declared itself. The next type is the despair that declares itself: to despair over oneself. A young girl despairs of love; therefore, she despairs over the loss of the beloved—that he died or that he was unfaithful to her. This is no declared despair; no, she despairs over herself. This self of hers—which she would have gotten rid of or would have lost in the most blissful way, if it had become “his” beloved—this self is now a torment to her, if it is to be a self without “him.” This self would have become her treasure (which, by the way, is just as despairing in another sense)—this self has now become a repulsive emptiness to her, since “he” is dead, or it has become a repulsion to her, since it reminds her that she has been deceived. Now, try it; say to such a girl: “You are consuming yourself.” And you will hear her answer: “Oh, no, the agony is precisely that I cannot do that.”
To despair over oneself, to will to get rid of oneself in despair, is the formula for all despair. So, then, the other form of despair (to will to be oneself in despair) can be traced back to the first one (not to want to be oneself in despair), as we previously dissolved the form “not to want to be oneself in despair” into the one “to want to be oneself in despair” (cf. A). The one who is in despair wants to be himself in despair. But if he wants to be himself in despair, then, after all, he does not want to get rid of himself. Yes, it seems like that. However, if one looks closer, one nevertheless sees that the contradiction is the same. The self that he wants to be in despair is a self that he is not (for to want to be the self that he is in truth is, to be sure, just the opposite of despair). That is to say, he wants to detach his self from the power that composed it. Yet, in spite of all despair, this he cannot do. In spite of despair’s every effort, that power is the stronger and compels him to be the self he does not want to be. In this way, however, he actually wants to get rid of himself, to get rid of the self he is in order to be the self he has made up himself. To be the self that he wants to be would satisfy his every desire, even if it would be just as despairing in another sense. But to be compelled to be the self that he does not want to be is his agony—in other words, that he cannot get rid of himself.
Socrates demonstrated the soul’s immortality from the fact that the soul’s sickness (sin) does not consume the soul as the body’s sickness consumes the body. Thus one can also demonstrate the eternal in a human being by the fact that despair cannot consume his self, that just this is the agony of contradiction in despair. If there were nothing eternal in a human being, then he could not despair at all. Yet, if despair could consume his self, then no despair would exist anyway.
Despair—this sickness in the self, the sickness unto death—is like this. The person in despair is critically ill. In an entirely different sense than applies to any sickness, this sickness has attacked the most valuable parts, and yet he cannot die. Death is not the last thing of the sickness, but death is incessantly the last thing. To be saved from this sickness by death is an impossibility, for this sickness and its agony—death as well—is precisely not to be able to die.
This is the state of despair. However much the person in despair avoids it, however much the person in despair succeeds in having entirely lost his self (which, then, especially applies to the kind of despair that is ignorant of being despair) and lost it in such a way that it is not noticed in the least: eternity will then nevertheless make it manifest that his condition was despair and will nail his self to him. Then the agony really becomes that he cannot get rid of his self, and it becomes obvious that it was a fantasy that he succeeded in doing so. And eternity must do it in this way, because to have a self—to be a self—is the greatest, the infinite concession made to the human being. Yet, it is eternity’s claim upon him as well.
B
The Commonality of This Sickness (of Despair)
As the physician must rightly say that perhaps not one single living person is entirely healthy, one who truly knows humanity must likewise say that not one single living person is without a little despair, is without an unrest deep down, is without discord, is without disharmony, is without anxiety about an unknown something or about a something he does not even dare to become acquainted with—an anxiety about some possibility in existence or an anxiety about himself, so that, just as the physician talks about going around with a bodily disease, he goes around with a sickness, goes on and is carrying a spiritual sickness that, in and with an inexplicable anxiety, once in a while betrays that it lies inside. And, in any case, no human being has lived, and no human being outside of Christendom lives, without despairing. And insofar as anyone in Christendom is not a true Christian, and insofar as he is not entirely a true Christian, he is still somewhat in despair.
For many persons, this observation will certainly seem like a paradox—an exaggeration from a dark and depressing point of view. But it is nothing of the sort. It is not dark; on the contrary, it seeks to cast light on what one generally leaves in a certain darkness. It is not depressing; on the contrary, it is uplifting, since it considers every human being under the purpose of the highest claim on him: to be spirit. Nor is it a paradox; on the contrary, it is a thoroughly consistent foundation-view and, therefore, really no exaggeration either.
On the other hand, the common view of despair stops at what seems to be the case and thus is a superficial view—that is, no view at all. It assumes that, after all, each human being himself must know best whether or not he is in despair. The one, then, who says himself that he is that: he is considered to be in despair. But the one who does not consider himself to be that: he is therefore not regarded as that either. As a result, despair becomes a scarcer phenomenon, instead of being quite a common thing. That one is in despair is not a rare occurrence. No, what is rare, very rare, is that one is truly not in despair.
But the crude view understands despair very poorly. Hence, among other things, it entirely overlooks (to name just this, which, rightly understood, nevertheless brings thousands and thousands and millions under the category of despair), it entirely overlooks that it is precisely a form of despair not to be in despair, not to be conscious that one is in despair. In a far deeper sense, the crude view in relation to understanding despair works at times like that in relation to determining whether or not a person is sick—in a far deeper sense. For the crude view is still a far inferior judge of what spirit is (and without that one cannot understand despair either) than of sickness and health. In general, one assumes that a person is in good health, if he himself does not say he is sick (not to mention if he himself says he is healthy). The doctor, on the other hand, views sickness differently. And why? Because the doctor has a defined and developed conception of what it is to be healthy, and he examines a person’s condition according to this conception. The doctor knows that, just as there is a sickness that is only an illusion, it is also this way with health. In the latter case, that is why he first takes measures to get the sickness to become evident. On the whole, the doctor—just because he is a doctor (one who is well-informed)—does not have unconditional trust in the person’s assertion about his state of health. If it were the case that what every person said about his health—whether he is healthy or sick, about where he is suffering, etc.—was to be unconditionally relied on, then being a doctor would be an illusion. For a doctor does not only have to prescribe treatments but, first and foremost, to recognize the sickness and therefore (again, first and foremost) to recognize whether the supposedly sick person actually is sick or whether the supposedly healthy person perhaps is actually sick.
This is how it is with the person knowledgeable about the soul and his relation to despair. He knows what despair is; he recognizes it and therefore is content neither with a person’s assertion that he is not in despair nor with his assertion that he is in despair. For it must be noted that, in a certain sense, those who claim to be in despair are not even always in despair. After all, one can affect despair, and one can confound and confuse despair—which is a spiritual category—with all sorts of transitory states of gloom and discord that once more pass without developing into despair. At the same time, the person knowledgeable about the soul rightly regards even these as forms of despair; he sees very well that they are affectation—but just this affectation is despair. He sees very well that this state of gloom, etc. does not have great significance. But just this—that it does not have and does not acquire great significance—is despair.
The crude view still overlooks the fact that, compared with a sickness, despair is dialectically different from what one usually calls a “sickness,” because it is a sickness of the spirit. And this dialectic, rightly understood, again brings thousands in under the category of despair. That is, if a physician has convinced himself in a given moment that someone is healthy—and, subsequently, that person becomes sick in a later moment—then the physician is right that this person was in good health at that time. Now, on the other hand, he is sick.
It is different with despair. As soon as despair appears, it shows that the person was in despair. Really, at no point can one decide anything about a person who is not saved by having been in despair. For when that which brings him to despair sets in, then, in the same moment, it becomes manifest that he has been in despair all of his preceding life. In contrast, when one gets a fever, one cannot at all say that it is now manifest that he has had a fever his whole life through. But despair is a category of the spirit, is related to the eternal, and therefore has something of the eternal in its dialectic.
Despair is not only dialectically different from a sickness, but, in relation to despair, all symptoms are dialectical, and that is why the superficial view is so easily frustrated regarding whether or not despair is present. For example, not to be in despair can precisely signify to be in despair, and it can signify being saved from being in despair. Peace of mind and restfulness can signify being in despair; precisely this peace of mind, this restfulness, can be the despair. And it can signify having overcome despair and having won peace. Not being in despair is not like not being sick. For, after all, not being sick cannot be the same as being sick, but not being in despair can be the very same as being in despair. With a sickness, to feel unwell is the sickness; despair is not like that. By no means. Again, to feel unwell is dialectical. To have never perceived this sick feeling is precisely to be in despair.
This means and has its basis in the fact that, viewed as spirit (and if one is to talk about despair, one must view the human being under the category of “spirit”), the human being’s condition is ever critical. One talks about a crisis in relation to sickness but not in relation to health. And why not? Because bodily health is an immediate category, which first becomes dialectical in the condition of sickness, where talk about a crisis then emerges. But spiritually—or when the human being is viewed as spirit—both health and sickness are critical. No immediate spiritual health is given.
As soon as one does not view the human being under the category of “spirit” (and if not, neither can one talk about despair) but only as a mental-physical synthesis, then health is an immediate category, and the sickness of the mind or of the body is first the dialectical category. But despair is precisely that the person himself is unconscious of being defined as spirit. Even what, in human terms, is the most beautiful and most lovable of all things—a feminine youthfulness, which is sheer peace and harmony and joy—is nevertheless despair. In other words, this is good luck, but good luck is not a category of spirit. And deep, deep inside, at the far end of good luck’s most secret hiding place, there too resides anxiety—which is despair. It certainly wants permission to remain there, for it is despair’s most cherished, most select place to live: at the far end of good luck. Despite its illusory peace of mind and rest, all immediacy is anxiety and thus, quite consistently, is most anxious about nothing. One does not make immediacy as anxious by the most hideous description of the most terrible something as by a subtle, almost slapdash, but—with the certain, calculating aim of reflection—nevertheless casually observed allusion to an indefinite something. Yes, one makes immediacy most anxious by slyly insinuating that it knows very well what it is one is talking about. For, surely enough, immediacy does not know it. But reflection never traps as certainly as when it fashions its snare out of nothing, and reflection is never so much itself as when it is…nothing. It takes eminent reflection—or, rather, it takes great faith—to be able to endure nothing—that is, infinite reflection. That is why even the most beautiful and most lovable of all things—a feminine youthfulness—is still despair, is good luck. Nor is it very successful, therefore, to slip through life in this immediacy. And if this good luck is successful in slipping through—well, it helps only a little, for it is despair. That is, just because it is wholly dialectical, despair is the sickness about which it is true that it is the greatest misfortune never to have had it: to get it is a true godsend, even if it is the most dangerous sickness of all when one does not want to be healed from it. Normally, however, there can only be talk that it is good fortune to be healed from a sickness; the sickness itself is the misfortune.
This is, therefore, as far as possible from the crude view, which assumes that despair is a rare thing. On the contrary, despair is entirely ordinary. This is as far as possible from the crude view, which assumes that everyone who does not think or feel himself to be in despair is not in despair either, and that only the one who declares himself to be in despair is in despair. On the contrary, the one who, without affectation, declares himself to be in despair is, however slightly, dialectically closer to being healed than all those who are not considered as such and who do not consider themselves as being in despair. But I think the person knowledgeable about the soul will agree with me precisely on this point—that, in general, most human beings live without truly becoming conscious of being determined as spirit…and from this all the so-called peace of mind, satisfaction with life, etc., etc., which is just despair. In contrast, those who declare themselves to be in despair are ordinarily either those who have such a very deep nature that they are bound to become conscious of themselves as spirit or those whom difficult events and terrifying decisions have helped in becoming conscious of themselves as spirit. It is either one or the other. For the one who is not in despair is, I dare say, very rare.
Oh, there is so much talk about human need and misery. I try to understand it and have intimately known quite a lot of things about it. There is so much talk about wasting a life, but only that person’s life was wasted who lived in such a way that, deceived by life’s joys or by its sorrows, he never became conscious as spirit, as a self, in eternal and decisive fashion. Or, what is the same thing, he never became aware and, in the deepest sense, got the impression that God exists and that “he,” he himself, his self, exists before this God, which is the reward of infinity never attained except through despair. Alas, and this misery—that so many live in this way, swindled of the most blessed of all thoughts; this misery—that one is occupied with or occupies the human masses with everything else, using them to supply the forces in the drama of life but never reminding them of this blessedness; this misery—that one gathers them and yet deceives them, instead of splitting them up so that each individual may win the highest, the only thing worth living for and sufficient to live in for an eternity.
It seems to me that I could cry an eternity over the fact that this misery exists! Oh, and in my mind, an additional expression of terror for this the most terrible sickness and misery of all lies in its hiddenness: not only that the one who suffers from it may wish to hide it and is capable of doing so; not only that it can dwell in a person in such a way that no one, no one can discover it; no, that it can be so hidden in a person that he himself does not know it! Oh, and some day when the hourglass has run out, the hourglass of temporality; when the noise of the secular world has died down and the restless or ineffective bustle has come to an end; when everything around you is still, as it is in eternity; then—whether you were a man or a woman, rich or poor, dependent or independent, fortunate or unfortunate; whether you bore the radiance of the crown in royalty or bore only the pain and heat of the day in lowly obscurity; whether your name shall be remembered for as long as the world stands (and therefore is remembered as long as it stood) or you, without a name, run as one nameless among the innumerable crowd; whether the glory surrounding you surpassed all human description or the most severe and most dishonorable human judgment befell you—then eternity asks you, along with every individual among these millions and millions, only one thing: whether you have lived in despair or not; whether you have despaired in such a way that you did not know that you were in despair or in such a way that you secretly bore this sickness in your heart of hearts as your gnawing secret, as a fruit of sinful love under your heart; or whether you have despaired in such a way that you, a terror to others, raged in despair.
And if so, if you have lived in despair, whatever you won or lost besides, then everything is lost for you. Eternity does not acknowledge you. It never knew you, or, even more terrible, it knows you as you are known. It chains you to yourself in despair!