Probably no one who attempts suicide, as Regnier shows in one of
his short stories, is fully aware of all his motives, which are
usually too complex. At least in my case it is prompted by a vague
sense of anxiety, a vague sense of anxiety about my own future.
Over the last two years or so I have thought only of death, and
with special interest read a remarkable account of the process of
death. While the author did this in abstract terms, I will be as
concrete as I can, even to the point of sounding inhuman. At this
point I am duty bound to be honest. As for my vague sense of anxiety
about my own future, I think I analyzed it all in "A Fool's
Life," except for a social factor, namely the shadow of feudalism
cast over my life. This I omitted purposely, not at all certain
that I could really clarify the social context in which I lived.
Once deciding on suicide (I do not regard it as a sin, as Westerners
do), I worked out the least painful means of carrying it out. Thus
I precluded hanging, shooting, leaping, and other manners of suicide
for aesthetic and practical reasons. Use of a drug seemed to be
perhaps the most satisfactory way. As for place, it had to be my
own house, whatever inconvenience to my surviving family. As a sort
of springboard I, as Kleist and Racine had done, thought of some
company, for instance, a lover or friend, but, having soon grown
confident of myself, I decided to go ahead alone. And the last thing
I had to weigh was to insure perfect execution without the knowledge
of my family. After several months' preparation I have at last become
certain of its possibility.
We humans, being human animals, do have an animal fear of death.
The so-called vitality is but another name for animal strength.
I myself am one of these human animals. And this animal strength,
it seems, has gradually drained out of my system, judging by the
fact that I am left with little appetite for food and women. The
world I am now in is one of diseased nerves, lucid as ice. Such
voluntary death must give us peace, if not happiness. Now that I
am ready, I find nature more beautiful than ever, paradoxical as
this may sound. I have seen, loved, and understood more than others.
In this at least I have a measure of satisfaction, despite all the
pain I have thus far had to endure.
P.S. Reading a life of Empedocles, I felt how old is this desire
to make a god of oneself. This letter, so far as I am conscious,
never attempts this. On the contrary, I consider myself one of the
most common humans. You may recall those days of twenty years ago
when we discussed "Empedocles on Etna" - under the linden
trees. In those days I was one who wished to make a god of myself.
