Decoud continues to sway between the horrors of society and the horrors of subjective
solitude. A moment ago he was ready to die a thousand deaths rather than trust
himself to the dangerous illusions of society; now he has reversed himself. Note
that he locates the price of a societal death not in the physical agony (much
more prolonged and severe than a drowning) but in "self-contempt," for
submitting himself to the realm of illusions he knows are false. Note also that
the narrator now downgrades his skepticism to an "affectation," though
on that score too the text has had many reversals.