Yes, I have finally made it — my decision — and I may say with perfect honesty that it was not taken lightly. The vile gossip, the venomous envy — all of this I foresaw, of course. But when it concerns one’s own future — nay, the whole of one’s existence, as I may justly claim in this instance — then one must rise above petty objections. Then only one thing matters: one’s own salvation.
Granted, that may sound rather grandiose. One might accuse me of lapsing into a clerical tone, which is not, I assure you, my usual manner. Yet in this case, it truly is a matter of my personal salvation. And so I cannot — under any circumstances — permit the envious and know-it-alls of every stripe — and heaven knows there’s no shortage of them in this world — to block my path with their carping and clamour.
I freely admit the decision did not come easily. I wrestled with it mightily — primarily with myself, for I refuse, most emphatically, to entangle myself in futile skirmishes with that great multitude of dullards and halfwits. I alone am adversary enough unto myself — my mother knew it well. Time and again, she lamented how rage — pure, scarlet, bull-necked rage — would sometimes overwhelm me so utterly that she and my father could do nothing but resort to cold water. „You needed some cooling down,“ she would say. „Your father and I dragged you to the pump, while you flailed and screamed as though we were leading you to slaughter. Your father held your head under, and I worked the handle. The century-old squeal of the pump mingled curiously with your shrieks. It pained me deeply — but it had to be done. It was the only remedy for that towering fury of yours.“
So there you have it, dear friends — I‘ve let slip the truth about my character. Perhaps now you grasp the magnitude of the battle I waged against my own wrath before reaching this decision. To put it plainly: this time, I dragged myself beneath the cold shower of my own volition, without coercion, and very nearly howled — if only to force my rage into clarity. I did this so you might see the boundless folly of accusing me, who know nothing of my affairs, of recklessness. Of course, I am painfully aware that to be cursed by nature with such a red, bull-necked temper is no badge of honour. I would sooner have kept silent on the matter — one need not trumpet one’s flaws to the world — but I mention this unflattering trait for a single reason: so all may understand that my decision was made after long struggle, in full awareness of its far-reaching consequences. When a man contends with his most fearsome foe — himself — he stands, at least, in the company of humanity’s greatest teachers. You are all far more learned than I, so you will know that a certain Socrates hailed self-knowledge and the conquest of one’s own ego as the noblest and most admirable of triumphs. This triumph — with no false modesty — I claim for myself, and I dismiss the cavils of perpetual naysayers with a scornful laugh.
But should you still doubt — should you deem it impossible — let me state once more, with emphasis: my decision is final and irrevocable. I know the mere thought of it makes you weaklings and obstinates tremble. Cowardice is written plainly upon your brows. You surrender without a fight; resistance does not even cross your minds. Do you think I haven’t noticed your thinning hair — how some of your pates are already barren deserts? Your skulls resemble freshly peeled potatoes, though far less smooth, for wrinkles have trenched your cheeks and foreheads like drainage channels for all those tears self-pity which you shed over your own decay. It is a disgrace that you dare show your repellent persons in public, poisoning the landscape with your mere presence. Especially when the inner state of you zombies is no better—indeed, worse. Some of you are so calcified in mind that your speech stutters and your steps falter. Good old Herbert, once our celebrated professor of German, whose razor wit and needle-sharp intellect once made us quake, now fears every uneven cobblestone — for fear of stumbling. Worst of all, he no longer understands his own jokes. Yes, that’s what you’ve become—and worse still, though you never speak of it, cloaking it in what you call „dignified silence“. But anyone who beholds your withered bodies and maimed souls knows the truth: you suffer from animal fear and incurable cowardice. Fear and cowardice are why you are incapable of such a great decision. Not one of you has the courage to turn back. „It isn’t worth it,“ you whimper. „It simply isn’t worth it!“
How I despise that litany! „Not worth it,“ you bleat, oblivious to how you slander existence itself with those faltering, tearful words. Did I just say „existence“? Yes, you heard correctly. In this case I cannot help but express myself philosophically, as our great thinkers do. For your malicious slander of existence — this foul nest-soiling — is the excuse you trot out time and again. It never occurs to you how you offend God and the world. Did He — the Lord, in whom your jaded hearts long ceased to believe — did He not, on the seventh day, solemnly bless His own work? Have you forgotten how He crowned His week of labour with satisfaction, declaring it „good“? „Good and right“ — thus He honoured His great work. Yet never have I heard such words from your lips. Instead, you grumble and complain, belittling the wonders of his creation.
I have never complained, nor shall I. Sooner would I drag myself beneath the cold shower again. And yet — who does not know it? — this world has its vexations. Just take, for instance, those mosquitoes that slip through an open window on a sultry summer night, stinging and sawing at one’s ears until sleep is impossible. Some of you, for this reason, insist that Creation is flawed. „Had we been in God’s place,“ you declare with smug superiority, „we would never have made mosquitoes.“ But don’t you see the blasphemy in such arrogant drivel? If mosquitoes displease you, then you must banish old Trude as well — ah, you don’t know her? But her name is irrelevant anyhow; it is the principle that matters. Trude, with her spiteful tongue, has turned the whole neighbourhood against her. Her straw-like bun crowns a half-bald scalp, and a wart disfigures her nose — she is a witch in human guise. Would you abolish her too? And why stop there? Away with the tapirs and their absurd proboscises! And what about all those snakes and spiders that send our delicate ladies into vapours?
I see: with such an allergy to the world, life itself can bring you little joy. Small wonder, then, that cowardice takes hold — you cower, you dread, and you long to quit this „vale of tears“ sooner rather than later. How, with such a disposition, could you ever make a great decision like mine? While you revile the world and teeter toward the grave, I stand tall, deliberate clearly and weigh all things in the clear light of reason. I ask myself: what of a world without mosquitoes or shrews (the name, as I said, is immaterial)? Would such a world still merit the Creator’s self-congratulation on the seventh day? Would He still rub His hands, pat His own shoulder, and pronounce His work „good“?
No! I answer resolutely. And for your edification, I add a second insight: only a contemptible wretch, a smug fault-finder swollen with self-regard, only an ass who wildly overestimates his own intellect could entertain such absurdity. Be honest — what would you do with your lives if you could no longer strive for the good and the better? Remove all mosquitoes, all Trudes (forget the name, it is irrelevant), all tapirs, snakes, and spiders — erase every obstacle — and what remains for you? I tell you: Nothing. Idleness would paralyse you; all zest for life would vanish. You would know nothing, care for nothing. Lifeless, listless, you would rot before the telly like mouldering couch potatoes. You would fade, decay, putrefy, and dissolve into pure, foul-smelling nothingness. For knowledge and experience exist solely to overcome obstacles. That is your purpose — and that is why there must be mosquitoes, tapirs, and yes, even the aforementioned personage (whose name I shall omit).
But I fear I cast pearls before — well, it is all but hopeless to enlighten you. Worse than hopeless. In truth, I do not even want you to make this great decision, so that you follow my path. For then I should have you as companions — always at my side. What torment that would be! Bald pates and calcified minds — to say nothing of those furrowed brows and cheeks, trenched like gutters. Let me be blunt: the sight of you offends me. Anyone can see, from a distance, that you are walking protests against beauty, intellect, and joy — that you shun, scorn, perhaps even hate this glorious world of a thousand colours and scents. No, I do not want you near me. Hurry along, then, to where you so desperately yearn to be: the cold pit beneath the earth, the grave. You deserve no better!
Here and now, our paths diverge forever. The greater your cowardice and ignominious flight, the more resolute becomes my resolution, now that I have found the truth. The world is perfect as it is — that is my truth. Having reached this liberating insight through the most strenuous philosophical effort, wholly unswayed by the crumb-picking pedants and moral philistines who ceaselessly proclaim the opposite while constantly sowing unrest in the world and doubt in Holy Scripture, I hereby declare, on this, my hundredth birthday, in full possession of my mental and nearly all my physical faculties, that my final and irrevocable decision — one you dare not even meet with your eyes – is the following.
I make up my mind to become immortal.