Now all is written. I have told my story. Here my pencil rests on this
flagstone, this lid of shale that covers my grave and already bears my
epitaph. My pencil.... I laid it here. It is worn to the wood. And I
have closed the register. All its pages to the very last are covered
with my cramped close-scribbled writing.
All is written. All--everything! And everything I was in duty bound to
write--for men and women--my brothers and sisters--are in danger though
they know it not. And I had to write ... because my tongue is tied ...
paralyzed, petrified in my mouth....
All is written. You who read what I have written know the truth ... for
the love of your God, if you have one, do not doubt my word ... but
understand, believe....
The sun has vanished below the horizon. Night has come.... My last
night.... Yes, death will come to me ere long! My life has run its
course. Its lamp is going out, because the oil has burned away!
On this long polished flagstone which has been my writing table and on
which my elbows rest I can still spell out my epitaph, though the light
is failing:
_Here Lies_