ABSTRACT
I Have already said that I do not shine in descriptions of a turbulent nature, therefore I shall not attempt to depict the tumultuous state of my soul the moment I arrived home, and felt convinced that Croesus, 53 with all his abundance, was but a beggar to me; and Pactolus, 54 if its streams had been all liquid gold, would have been a mere puddle of wealth when compared with my exhaustless ocean. Added to this, I had the power, by means of an elixir, of perpetuating my days till the age of Methusalem 55 should not bear the proportion of a baby’s to mine, before which all the / wondrous longevities of man in former times combined should dwindle into nothing. I could be immortal! I could be that thing whose existence no addition will augment, and no deduction diminish. I could be infinite. But, I beg pardon, I fear I am writing too well, I will endeavour to descend.
