About the physical part of it, the “invisible corruption,” I never think; it is enough that it will be invisible. And for the rest, death is nothing, it is the end. I have never shrunk from the thought of it, it does not come as a stranger to me now. I take it simply and naturally--it is the end. It is the end that comes to all things in this phantom-dance of being; to flowers and to music, to mountains and to planets, to histories, and to universes, and to men. * * * * * I said: “It must come some day. It may come any day. Love not thy life too much--know what thou art.” * * * * * God can spare me. He got along without me once, and doubtless he can do it again. There are many things that I should like to see--I should like to see all the ages; but that was not my fate. * * * * * When I was young they taught me to be orthodox. And I see them stare at me now in horror. “Suicide!” they gasp. “Suicide!” * * * * * Yes!--Why not? Am I not the lord of mine own life, to end it as well as to live it? * * * * * And the law! Prate not of laws, I know of no laws, either of man or God; my law is the right and my holy will. * * * * * And the punishment! Well, and if your hell be a reality, why, it is my home--it is the home of all true men. The sublime duty of being damned is ever my reply to theological impertinences. * * * * * --No, the sight of death does not thrill me in the least--when I stand upon the brink it will not thrill me. It is not fearful; what the weakest of men have done, I can do. And it is not sublime. Life is sublime, life thrills me; death is nothing. * * * * * June 5th. To-day I wished that it were winter. A wonderful idea came to me--I am almost tempted to live and wait for winter. I said: I would choose one place where the money-blind and the folly-mad assemble--where I have seen them and had my eyes burned by the sight. I would go to the opera-house on the opening night! I would go to the top gallery, and I would put my journal, my story, under my coat; and in the midst of the thing I would give one cry, to startle them; and I would dash down that long flight of steps, and shoot over the railing headfirst. --Ha! That would make them think! They might read the book, then. What place could be more fitted? In an opera-house meet, as nowhere else in this world that I know of, the two extremes of life--God and the devil. I mean on a Wagner night! Here is the inspiration of a sainted poet, here is ecstasy unthinkable, flung wide and glorious as the dawn; and here is all the sodden and brutal vulgarity of wealth, deaf, blind, and strutting in its insolent pomposity. * * * * *