This morning, I stumbled* — literally — on this passage from Confession which is a pure marvel and which announces The Death of Ivan Ilitch written seven years later:

“At first it seemed to me that they were gratuitous, inappropriate requests. I believed that all this was already known, that if I ever wanted to tackle these questions head-on, it would give me no trouble, that for the moment I did not have the time, but that as soon as I wanted to , I would immediately find the answers. Now these questions assailed me more and more often, demanding the answer with ever more vehemence, and as they all fell in the same place, in a multitude of points, these unanswered questions formed a single black spot. (…)

“It happened to me what happens to all who have contracted a fatal internal disease. First, we see the appearance of an insignificant symptom to which the patient attaches no importance, then the symptoms return more and more often 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 the fulfillment of which would have seemed reasonable to me. »

It takes the quality of Tolstoy to express so perfectly this rise in power (which some might confuse with the will to power), this progressive invasion of anxiety. La Mort d'Ivan Ilitch, a condensed masterpiece of this masterpiece that is life, will perfectly give this impression of falling into another universe. In an innocuous moment life bifurcates and routs. Life is made only of the assembly of these intimate moments shared with oneself.

* By reading my notes from the very interesting little book by Monique Canto-Sperber: Essay on human life .