What Shall I Think When I Come To Die, If Only I Am In A Condition To Think Anything Then? Shall I Think How Little Use I Have Made Of My Life, How I Have Slumbered, Dozed Through It, How Little I Have Known How To Enjoy Its Gifts? 'What? Is This Death? So Soon? Impossible! Why, I Have Had No Time To Do Anything Yet.... I Have Only Been Making Ready To Begin!' Shall I Recall The Past, And Dwell In Thought On The Few Bright Moments I Have Lived Through - On Precious Images And Faces? Will My Ill Deeds Come Back To My Mind, And Will My Soul Be Stung By The Burning Pain Of Remorse Too Late? Shall I Think Of What Awaits Me Beyond The Grave ... And In Truth Does Anything Await Me There? No.... I Fancy I Shall Try Not To Think, And Shall Force Myself To Take Interest In Some Trifle Simply To Distract My Own Attention From The Menacing Darkness, Which Is Black Before Me. I Once Saw A Dying Man Who Kept Complaining They Would Not Let Him Have Hazel-Nuts To Munch!... And Only In The Depths Of His Fast-Dimming Eyes, Something Quivered And Struggled Like The Torn Wing Of A Bird Wounded To Death.... August 1879.