Nowtherearesomesubjectswhomallthisleavesapreytotheprofoundestastonishment。Thestrangenessiswrong。Theunrealitycannotbe。Amysteryisconcealed，andametaphysicalsolutionmustexist。Ifthenaturalworldissodouble-facedandunhomelike，whatworld，whatthingisreal？Anurgentwonderingandquestioningissetup，aporingtheoreticactivity，andinthedesperateefforttogetintorightrelationswiththematter，thesuffererisoftenledtowhatbecomesforhimasatisfyingreligioussolution。
Atabouttheageoffifty，Tolstoyrelatesthathebegantohavemomentsofperplexity，ofwhathecallsarrest，asifheknewnot“howtolive。”orwhattodo。Itisobviousthattheseweremomentsinwhichtheexcitementandinterestwhichourfunctionsnaturallybringhadceased。Lifehadbeenenchanting，itwasnowflatsober，morethansober，dead。Thingsweremeaninglesswhosemeaninghadalwaysbeenself-evident。Thequestions“Why？”and“Whatnext？”begantobesethimmoreandmorefrequently。Atfirstitseemedasifsuchquestionsmustbeanswerable，andasifhecouldeasilyfindtheanswersifhewouldtakethetime；butastheyeverbecamemoreurgent，heperceivedthatitwaslikethosefirstdiscomfortsofasickman，towhichhepaysbutlittleattentiontilltheyrunintoonecontinuoussuffering，andthenherealizesthatwhathetookforapassingdisordermeansthemostmomentousthingintheworldforhim，meanshisdeath。
Thesequestions“Why？”“Wherefore？”“Whatfor？”foundnoresponse。
“Ifelt。”saysTolstoy，“thatsomethinghadbrokenwithinmeonwhichmylifehadalwaysrested，thatIhadnothinglefttoholdonto，andthatmorallymylifehadstopped。Aninvincibleforceimpelledmetogetridofmyexistence，inonewayoranother。ItcannotbesaidexactlythatIWISHEDtokillmyself，fortheforcewhichdrewmeawayfromlifewasfuller，morepowerful，moregeneralthananymeredesire。Itwasaforcelikemyoldaspirationtolive，onlyitimpelledmeintheoppositedirection。Itwasanaspirationofmywholebeingtogetoutoflife。
“Beholdmethen，amanhappyandingoodhealth，hidingtheropeinordernottohangmyselftotheraftersoftheroomwhereeverynightIwenttosleepalone；beholdmenolongergoingshooting，lestIshouldyieldtothetooeasytemptationofputtinganendtomyselfwithmygun。