Later that night we went to a science laboratory where we were shown a new Abbe microscope. Strindberg listened intently to the technician who demonstrated the improvements over the older type. Then he asked to borrow it and disappeared into another room. After some minutes we went to see what had become of him. We found him kneeling in front of a window sill on which the microscope had been placed. The tube had been reversed and was pointing at the stars. “Strindberg,” we said sadly, “what in the world are you doing?”

“I am raising THE MODERN WINDOW TO THE STARS, that’s what I’m doing,” he shouted back at us, fierce and defensive and vulnerable, his wounded eyes reverberating with a frenzied, distant glance, vulnerable and open and sadly looking back at us... “Poor Strindberg, oh, Strindberg—we can see the Swedish winter daylight fighting and singing its way through your tortured soul!”