Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

The Diary of a Superfluous Man Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

The doctor has just left me. At last I have got at something definite! For all his cunning, he had to speak out at last. Yes, I am soon, very soon, to die. The frozen rivers will break up, and with the last snow I shall, most likely, swim away ... whither? God knows! To the ocean too. Well, well, since one must die, one may as well die in the spring. But isn't it absurd to begin a diary a fortnight, perhaps, before death? What does it matter? And by how much are fourteen days less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? Beside eternity, they say, all is nothingness-yes, but in that case eternity, too, is nothing. I see I am letting myself drop into metaphysics; that's a bad sign-am I not rather faint-hearted, perchance? I had better begin a description of some sort. It's damp and windy out of doors. I'm forbidden to go out.