When I am gone, that is the end of the world.
All its movements, of government, of wars, of business, of social redemption, of eugenics and women’s rights, of church, of art, of education, of finance, sport, romance, vengeance – the whole boiling kettle of human affairs will have disappeared, and “like an insubstantial fabric vanished leave not a wrack behind.”
What do I care about the end of the world? The end of me is the end of the world.
When I am gone so many things will make no matter.
The kisses of hot lips, the yearning of full breasts, the fires of passion, the impatience, the eagerness, the monomania, the quick breathing and aching heart – just a little handful of cold ashes of memory, when I am gone.
No more my footstep in the hall, my key rattling in the front door, my chair ready by the lamp, my bureau drawer full of neckties, my coats hanging in the closet, my desk cluttered with papers and books, the smell of my pipe through the house, no more me, nor the accoutrements of me.
How long will it take the ripples to die away on the water when the pebble me has dropped in? How long before all is again as it was before I was?
How long before my name sounds strange, and curious people try to recall, and say, “Oh, yes! I did hear my grandmother speak of him once.”
When I am gone, who will use my French dictionary, a red book, colored like a meerschaum by much handling; and what will become of my little black address-book, and my fountain-pen, and my desk clock? I use them every day now. I love them, yet I know they are all trollops and will serve the next man gladly.
When I am gone, whither will all these molecules fly that make up my body? My congregation of atoms will break up. They will scatter “from Ponkapog to Pesth.” “School’s out!” they’ll cry, and run away.
I am concerned about this world, as well as about myself, when I am gone. Think of the sun rising day after day and no me to see them, of trees greening in Spring and my heart not there to leap, of good jokes and no laughter from me, of pretty faces and no eye of mine to brighten. The world is good, and it is mine; what will it do without me?
I stew and fret, I hope and fear, I strive, I think things are so important; but, when I am gone, what’s the difference?
When I am gone! “Why so hot, little man?” Why worry?
