When I thought of that I smiled grimly. I am living on dry bread, and saving my money to buy a dumb-bell and a chain on Friday.
I pray most of the time. I have no longer the old ecstasy—such things do not come often in cities. But it will come once again before I die, that I know.
I have a strange attitude toward death. To me it is nothing. There is, of course, the pain of drowning—it probably hurts to be strangled, but I do not think it will hurt as much as ten lines of The Captive hurt.
About the physical part of it, the “invisible corruption,” I never think; it is enough that it will be invisible. And for the rest, death is nothing, it is the end. I have never shrunk from the thought of it, it does not come as a stranger to me now. I take it simply and naturally—it is the end. It is the end that comes to all things in this phantom-dance of being; to flowers and to music, to mountains and to planets, to histories, and to universes, and to men.
I said: “It must come some day. It may come any day. Love not thy life too much—know what thou art.”