I measured the years that separated me from my end. I looked out for examples of men of my age who were dead already. And I was tormented by the idea that I might not have time to accomplish my task. What task? I didn’t know. Quite honestly, was it worth going on with what I was doing? But this was not exactly the point. In fact I was pursued by a ridiculous fear: one could not die without having confessed all one’s lies. Not to God or to one of his representatives: I was above that, as you might imagine. No, it was a matter of confessing to mankind, for example, to a friend or to a woman I
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