As he wavered between one suffering and another, between somnolence and anxiety, he suddenly realized he was ill, and anguish overwhelmed him at the thought that he might die in this unconsciousness, without being able to see clearly. The village steeple chimed, but he could not keep count of the strokes. He did not want to die like a sick man. He did not want his illness to be what it is so often, an attenuation, a transition to death. What he really wanted was the encounter between his life – a life filled with blood and health – and death.
