And its
expansion is so great that death itself is effaced by it. For how
could I imagine my death, except by going outside of myself, and
looking at myself as if I were not I but somebody else?

We do not die. Each human being is alone in the world. It seems
absurd, contradictory to say this, and yet it is so. But there are
many human beings like me. No, we cannot say that. In saying that, we
set ourselves outside the truth in a kind of abstraction. All we can
say is: I am alone.

And that is why we do not die.

Once, bowed in the evening light, the dead man had said, "After my
death, life will continue. Every detail in the world will continue to
occupy the same place quietly. All the traces of my passing will die
little by little, and the void I leave behind will be filled once
more."

He was mistaken in saying so. He carried all the truth with him. Yet
we, /we/ saw him die. He was dead for us, but not for himself. I feel
there is a fearfully difficult truth here which we must get, a
formidable contradiction. But I hold on to the two ends of it, groping
to find out what formless language will translate it. Something like
this: "Every human being is the whole truth." I return to what I
heard. We do not die since we are alone. It is the others who die.
And this sentence, which comes to my lips tremulously, at once baleful
and beaming with light, announces that death is a false god.

But what of the others? Granted that I have the great wisdom to rid
myself of the haunting dread of my own death, there remains the death
of others and the death of so many feelings and so much sweetness. It
is not the conception of truth that will change sorrow. Sorrow, like
joy, is absolute.

And yet! The infinite grandeur of our misery becomes confused with
glory and almost with happiness, with cold haughty happiness. Was it
out of pride or joy that I began to smile when the first white streaks
of dawn turned my lamp pale and I saw I was alone in the universe?

CHAPTER XV

It was the first time I had seen her in mourning, and that evening her
youth shone more resplendent than ever.

Her departure was close at hand. She looked about to see if she had
left anything behind in the room, which had been made ready for other
people, the room which was already formless, already abandoned.

The door opened. The young woman turned her head. A man appeared in
the sunny doorway.

"Michel, Michel, Mi