Wednesday, 16 July 1879

I am extraordinarily weary. They say typhoid fever begins like this. I am having bad dreams. What if I were to die. And I am quite astonished to find myself not frightened of dying. If there is another life, it will certainly be better than mine here the one I am wearing out here below. And if there is nothing, after death... there is all the more reason to fear nothing, and to wish to see an end of troubles without brilliance and torments without glory. I must make my will. I began working at eight in the morning, and by five I am so tired that my evening is lost. Yet I must write my will. I shall think about it this evening.