I reflected, "After all, what does it matter? One
dies and all is over. It is the common fate; nothing could be better or
easier."
I then prided myself on being able to look death boldly in the face, but
suddenly a shiver froze my blood, and my dizzy anguish returned, as if
a giant hand had swung me over a dark abyss. It was some vision of the
earth returning and setting reason at naught. How often at night did I
start up in bed, not knowing what cold breath had swept over my slumbers
but clasping my despairing hands and moaning, "Must I die?" In those
moments an icy horror would stop my pulses while an appalling vision of
dissolution rose before me. It was with difficulty that I could get to
sleep again. Indeed, sleep alarmed me; it so closely resembled death.
If I closed my eyes they might never open again--I might slumber on
forever.
I cannot tell if others have endured the same torture; I only know that
my own life was made a torment by it. Death ever rose between me and
all I loved; I can remember how the thought of it poisoned the happiest
moments I spent with Marguerite. During the first months of our married
life, when she lay sleeping by my side and I dreamed of a fair future
for her and with her, the foreboding of some fatal separation dashed my
hopes aside and embittered my delights.
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