Now everything is over. The grave is filled.... The people are going home.
Home? No, I shall stay here! Where have I to go? This place here, henceforth, is home for me ... my home!
XXXIX
Now all is written. I have told my story. Here my pencil rests on this flagstone, this lid of shale that covers my grave and already bears my epitaph. My pencil.... I laid it here. It is worn to the wood. And I have closed the register. All its pages to the very last are covered with my cramped close-scribbled writing.
All is written. All—everything! And everything I was in duty bound to write—for men and women—my brothers and sisters—are in danger though they know it not. And I had to write ... because my tongue is tied ... paralyzed, petrified in my mouth....
All is written. You who read what I have written know the truth ... for the love of your God, if you have one, do not doubt my word ... but understand, believe....
The sun has vanished below the horizon. Night has come.... My last night.... Yes, death will come to me ere long! My life has run its course. Its lamp is going out, because the oil has burned away!
On this long polished flagstone which has been my writing table and on which my elbows rest I can still spell out my epitaph, though the light is failing: