Tell me this:

why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am
most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and
beautiful," it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel
but to do such ugly things, such that ... Well, in short, actions that all,
perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very
time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more
conscious I was of goodness and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the
more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether.

The following morning, I lay acutely conscious that the previous day I had
committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone,
and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnashing at myself for it, tearing and consuming
myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness.