Book: Happy death

Since that day when he sneezed on the square in front of the Villa of Zagreus, and up to the present hour, his body faithfully served as a mediator between itself and the world. But at the same time continued his own existence, not dependent incarnate in this man. And all these years it lasted slow, invisible process of disintegration. Now it has completed its way and was willing to part with the master, returning it to the world. A shiver suddenly shook Patrice, was another confirmation of their long-standing and mutual consent, which gave them both so much joy. Either way, Meursault did not feel that shiver in delight. Not end and not smalodushnichal, he got what he wanted: a clear mind is left alone with his body now and could look death in the face, wide-eyed. The point is to behave like a man, because both of them were real men. And nothing else around - no love, no ostentatious gestures - only the endless desert of loneliness and happiness, among whom Meursault had played his last card.

Really happy it was long. But is it in time? It can only serve as an obstacle to happiness, but otherwise it can not be taken into account. Meursault overcame this obstacle, and how they managed to live they generated a new and happy creature - for two years or two decades - it does not matter. Happiness consisted in the fact that he gave life to this creature.

And the total was accumulated in it the tears with a taste of life and death.

More recently, he was looking at death with animal terror, but now realized that to fear them is to fear life itself. The fear of death can only be justified a limitless attachment to all that is alive in man. Who dared to act, to lift your life to new heights, like a coward who reveled in their own weakness, they can not be afraid of death, mindful of the sentence that it makes them last wasted life. Such have never lived in full force, and whether they lived at all? Death forever deprives life-giving water of those Wanderers who are not able to satisfy their thirst in life. But for others is fatal and blissful event, rejecting and destroying their existence, but equally receiving and humility, and rebellion.

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".

Death will soon PortNet them, the killer and the victim are brothers.

When I was little, my mother told me that sunset cloud is the souls of the dead ascending to heaven. That's the miracle, I thought, means I have the soul red color. Now I know that red cloud simply portend a windy day. But it is also wonderful.

... And before his eyes arose the vision of life, whose beauty and happiness seemed woven from despair, from scraps of fleeting eternity.

And to think that beauty spilled over the world, there behind the window!

No one is born strong or weak-willed or weak-willed. The power and clarity of consciousness necessary to suffer. Fate breeds not in man, but around him.

Nothing in life is so simple is not given, all have to win.

Meursault felt as far from his happiness to tears...

His throwing on the light, pursuit of happiness, a terrible wound on the temple of Zagreus, this hodgepodge of brain and bones, graced the quiet hours in the "House of the face of the World," his wife, his hope and the gods - all these appeared before him in the likeness it is unknown why popular stories, strange and however close, it seemed something like a book, touched the deepest chords of his heart, but written by someone else. For the first time in his life he felt himself involved in one single reality: that was the attraction to risk, desire for power, an instinctive awareness of his kinship with the world. Having overcome her anger and hatred he never knew and regret...

Meursault is left alone with the night, it seemed to him that he finally made up his honored of serenity generated by persistent self-denial, acquired with the support of the world that flatly denied its right to exist.