You dissolve all the tablets—five grains—and fill the barrel of the hypo. You jab yourself and push.
Simple.
The reader of these notes may therefore spare himself—as I spared myself—as all human beings should be spared—the anticipation of death dragged out excruciatingly by the miracles of science.
That is one of the items on the gigantic ledger in which are gathered those details that prove modern man is mad.
Too many people, for one thing,
when they get to dying,
want to top Jesus.
Wanting that,
inevitably,
they want to kill as many others as possible
by Christlike torture—
forgetting that even He
had his legs broken
as a method of mercy killing.
My apologies, then, for not entering this note sooner.
I sat at the window and I could have pulled out my own hair, or wept, (or roared with laughter) on account of Paul.
I knew Paul pretty well, and loved him.
And I did not believe he was enough of a realist or a humorist to marry a harlot and prosper in his soul.