We are troubled if we must speak of death,which is merely a part of existence. It is not existenceitself. It is nothing but a ray of light falling obliquelyon the forking branches bending above the path. It is incised in the sleepy afternoonas the screeching of the lavishly feathered pheasant cock.Because why do we rejoice for every day thatshines down upon us, until our bodies, stooped,finally lie down to rest in the evening? All things from the endspeak to us of the helplessness of the beginning. Birth,as well, lures tears into our eyes. If we recall that bloody,viscous body, upon which light falls from within,surging, for inside there is none. For why do we give ourselves overfully to that moment when joy, traveling through the body,veers too close to us. For surely it is too close, it waits beyondthe other side of the body, always there, the sign beyond language. Or isthere any distance between the body and the self?—Why is farewell so difficult,and why is mourning so light in its weight? Because life goes on,they say. . . But what does that mean to the onewho is dead? How do we bid farewell to him,no longer among us? Or perhaps never was. Because he who was hereleft only a trace, but nothing of his own self. Nothing ofwho he was. How do we bid farewell to the onewe can never speak to again, we speak only of him? Just asour words, from now on, may only speak about him,but we may never speak to him again? To whom? The one who was. But whowas that person of whom we say it was he? Who is stillhere among us, as dust and ashes.