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The pain was not getting any less, but Ivan Ilyich made every effort to make himself believe he was feeling better.
‘Death. Yes, it’s death. And not one of them knows, or wants to know. They have no pity for me. Too busy playing.’
He could see that no one had any pity for him because no one had the slightest desire to understand his situation.
It was the same thing all the time, day and night, with no end to it. Make it soon. Make what soon? Death, darkness. No, no. Anything was better than death!
‘It’s as if I had been going downhill when I thought I was going uphill. That’s how it was. In society’s opinion I was heading uphill, but in equal measure life was slipping away from me … And now it’s all over. Nothing left but to die!
‘and I am leaving this life knowing I have ruined everything I was given, and it can’t be put right, what then?’
