This morning, I stumbled* — literally — upon this passage from Confession which is a pure marvel and which so aptly foreshadows The Death of Ivan Ilyich written seven years later:
“At first, it seemed to me that these were gratuitous, inappropriate requests. I believed that all of this was already known, that if I ever wanted to address these questions head-on, it would be no trouble at all, that for the moment I didn't have the time, but that as soon as I felt like it, I would immediately find the answers. However, these questions assailed me more and more frequently, demanding answers with ever greater vehemence, and since they all fell on the same point, in a multitude of ways, these unanswered questions formed a single black stain. (…)
“What happens to me is what happens to all those who contract a fatal internal disease. First, an insignificant symptom appears, to which the patient pays no attention, then the symptoms return more and more frequently and merge into a single, indivisible suffering over time. (…)
"My life stopped. I could breathe, eat, drink, sleep; but I had no life, for there were no longer any desires whose fulfillment would have seemed reasonable to me."
It takes Tolstoy's skill to express so perfectly this escalating intensity (which some might mistake for a will to power), this gradual encroachment of anguish. The Death of Ivan Ilyich, a condensed masterpiece of the masterpiece that is life, perfectly conveys this impression of tipping into another universe. In a seemingly insignificant moment, life veers off course and throws us off balance. Life is made up of nothing but the accumulation of these intimate moments shared with oneself.
* While reading my notes from Monique Canto-Sperber's very interesting little book: Essay on Human Life .
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