I gave up today upon reaching the end point, yet we have not crossed it. It's true that I have given up on almost everything. Except life—I dare not, which perhaps is my cowardice that saves me. Like Don Quixote my grand heroics do not find a place in reality; like Faust my intelligence has me consorted with the devil. The thing to do is to write my book, and what it means is that it can be completed tomorrow or when I turn seventy. It takes a whole life to write about another life in its entirety. The epic keeps me going. I will myself to experience life's sweets and sufferings. I fail and I fail and I fail. And then I succeed some. And then I battle demons in my head. And fall to a mediocre exterior. And at seventy, with my life written in the form of another, one shall close while the other goes on living. I will laugh in it. I will cry in it. I will fall in it. I will rise in it. And the only thing I have ever wanted to do, really, with my life, is to move a heart.
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