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.