Giving life means also giving death, and to organize inorganic bodies, means to sooner or later disorganize them.
But, to my surprise, it was not for want of petrol that the fantastic creature died. No, the tank was half full. It was the soul, therefore, which killed it—the human soul, that corrupt soul, which so rapidly wore out the constitutions of animals, more healthy than ours, and soon ruined this pure metallic body.
I ordered the filthy bundle of refuse to be flung away. The drains were to be the tomb of Klotz.
He’s dead! He’s dead! I’m rid of him. He is dead, and he can never come to life again. In fact, he is dead! His spirit is with the deceased. He can never hurt me again. Ah, ha! DEAD! The filthy brute!
I ought to be happy, but I am not very. Oh, it is not because of Emma. No doubt the “baggage” causes me pain, but that will soon be cured, and to admit that grief is consolable, is already to be consoled from it. My great trouble comes from my recollections. What I have seen and felt harasses me.
The madman Nell! The operation! The Minotaur! I—Jupiter! And so many other horrors.
I dread eyeballs that stare at me, and I lower my eyes in the presence of keyholes. Those are the sources of my trouble, but I also dread the horrible future.
Suppose it were not all finished?
Suppose Klotz’s death did not wind up my story?
I do not care about him, as he no longer exists; even if he should come and haunt me in the features of Lerne or a car, I should know that he was only an hallucination of my weak eyes.