Albert Camus. Happy death (№ 185432)

Still he just lived, now it's time to take stock of this life. What is left of that violent outburst that always pushed him forward, from the subtle, but creative poetry, which was full of his existence? Nothing but the bare truth, and so she has nothing to do with poetry. All of us from birth carry within ourselves many different creatures, a lot of intertwined to each other, naselennyh the rudiments of personality and just before the end to guess which of them was our true "I".