And since we were all once denizens of the void or enjoying a state of non-existence, what is so strange or terrible about returning to that state, even though we now have something to compare it with and the capacity to miss what went before? When he found out what was wrong with him, when he knew he was about to die, he was devastated and cursed his ill luck as roundly as the next man, but he also remembered how many others had disappeared at a much younger age than him; how they had been eliminated by that second chance event of their lives, with barely enough time or opportunity to experience anything: young men and women, children, newborns who were never even given a name … In that respect, he showed great integrity and didn’t fall to pieces. What he couldn’t bear, though, what demoralized him and drove him mad, was the manner of his death, the whole dreadful process, the slowness contained within the swift encroachment of the disease, the deterioration, the pain and the deformity, everything, in short, that his doctor friend had warned him about. He wasn’t prepared to go through all that, still less allow his children and Luisa to witness it. Or anyone else, for that matter. He accepted the idea that he would cease to be, but not the senseless torment, the months of suffering for no reason and no reward, the thought of leaving behind him the image of a defenceless, disfigured, one-eyed man. He didn’t see the point, and he did rebel against that, he did protest and rail at fate. It wasn’t in his power to remain in the world, but he could leave it in a more elegant manner than the one in prospect, he would simply have to depart a little early.’ – ‘A case,’ I thought, ‘in which it would be inappropriate to say: “He should have died hereafter,” because that “hereafter” would mean something far worse, involving more suffering and humiliation, less dignity and more horror for his nearest and dearest, so it’s not always desirable for everything to last a little longer, a year, a few months, a few weeks, a few hours, it isn’t always true that we will think it too soon to put an end to things or people, nor is it true that there is never an opportune moment, for there may come a time when we ourselves say: “That’s fine. That’s enough. What comes next will be worse, an abasement, a denigration, a stain,” when we will be brave enough to acknowledge: “This time is over, even though it’s our time.” And even if the ending of things did lie in our hands, everything would go on indefinitely, becoming grubby and contaminated, with no living creature ever dying. We must not only allow the dead to leave when they try to linger or when we hold on to them, we must also let go of the living sometimes.’ And I realized that in thinking this, I was, momentarily and against my will, believing the story that Díaz-Varela was telling me now. We do tend to believe things while we’re hearing or reading them. Afterwards, it’s another matter, when the book is closed and the voice stops speaking.
‘Why didn’t he just commit suicide?’
Díaz-Varela again looked at me as if I were a child, that is, as if I were an innocent.
‘What kind of question is that!’ he said. ‘Like most people, he was incapable of committing suicide. He didn’t dare, he couldn’t bring himself to decide the “when”: why today and not tomorrow, if today I see no further changes in myself and feel quite well? If that decision were left up to each individual, hardly anyone would ever find the right moment. He wanted to die before the effects of the illness took hold, but there was no way he could put a date on that “before”: as I said, he had a month and a half or two months, possibly a little longer, no one could tell. And, again like most people, he didn’t want to know for certain beforehand when that would happen, he didn’t want to wake up one morning and say to himself: “This is my last day. I won’t see another night.” Even if he got others to help him, he would still know what was going to happen, what they were up to, he would still know the date in advance. His friend