“For a while now, a strange and penetrating dream...” he started, alluding to his favorite poet Paul Verlaine. He was still a big reader of French literature, I could see. “...has turned into an obsession, and imprisons me inside myself. Or maybe I shut myself inside the dream, I don’t know. This dream directly concerns you, directly; you are implicated in the dream...”
There it was, the attack had happened. I had been expecting it, I knew he wouldn’t stay trampled down for long in his defeated and imploring attitude. He was now more relaxed and started walking around the room; although still somewhat awkward, he was starting to speak with his former confidence. G... was becoming the person I’d known before, his magnetism was coming back, a magnetism due to his quiet and justified projection of his intellectual superiority that he would parade around when striking poses.