
There was a time when I thought I had to come up with a host of brilliant ideas each day, and now I sometimes feel like a barren stretch of land in which nothing grows, but which is nevertheless spanned by a high, wide sky. And this way is by far the better.
Nowadays I am suspicious of the multitude of thoughts that well up ; I would sooner lie fallow and wait. Such an awful lot has happened inside me these last few days. Something has crystallized.
I have looked our destruction, our miserable end, which has already begun in so many small ways in our daily life, and my love of life has not been diminished. I am not bitter or rebellious, or in anyway discouraged. I continue to grow from day to day, even with the likelihood of destruction staring me in the face. I shall no longer flirt with words, for words merely evoke misunderstandings : I have come to terms with life, nothing can happen me, and after all my personal fate is not the issue, it doesn’t really matter if it is I who perish or another.
What matters is that we are all marked men.
That’s what I sometime say to others, although it doesn’t make much sense and doesn’t really explain what I mean. By “ coming to terms with life “ I mean : The reality of death has become a definite part of my life ; my life has, so to speak, been extended by death, by my looking death in the eye and accepting it, by accepting destruction as part of life and no longer wasting my energies on fear of death or the refusal to acknowledge its inevitably.
Through non-acceptance and through having all those fears, most people are left with just a pitiful and mutilated slice of life, which can hardly be called life at all. It sounds paradoxical : by excluding death from our life we can not live a full life, and by admitting death into our life we enlarge and enrich it.
-Etty Hillesum', July 1942