But far beyond the
horizon, and the barren sands peopled by these hostile hordes, the
wayfarer pictures to himself a few loved faces and kind looks, a few
true hearts which follow him in their dreams--and smiles. When all is
said, indeed, we defend ourselves a greater or lesser number of years,
but we are always conquered and devoured in the end; there is no
escaping the grave and its worm. Destruction is our destiny, and
oblivion our portion....
How near is the great gulf! My skiff is thin as a nutshell, or even more
fragile still. Let the leak but widen a little and all is over for the
navigator. A mere nothing separates me from idiocy, from madness, from
death. The slightest breach is enough to endanger all this frail,
ingenious edifice, which calls itself my being and my life.
Not even the dragonfly symbol is enough to express its frailty; the
soap-bubble is the best poetical translation of all this illusory
magnificence, this fugitive apparition of the tiny self, which is we,
and we it.
... A miserable night enough. Awakened three or four times by my
bronchitis. Sadness--restlessness. One of these winter nights, possibly,
suffocation will come. I realize that it would be well to keep myself
ready, to put everything in order.... To begin with, let me wipe out all
personal grievances and bitternesses; forgive all, judge no one; in
enmity and ill-will, see only misunderstanding.
Pages:
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603