LOUIS. — Later, it was the year after.
It was going to be my turn to die
right now I’m nearly thirty-four and it’s the age I will be when.
I died
the following year.
I’d been waiting around for quite a few months without doing
anything about it, cheating really, avoiding the issue
waiting it out for quite a few months just to get it over with the
year after
like when you sometimes make a move
very carefully
when faced wit extreme danger, moving imperceptibly, trying
not to make any noise nor any sudden movement lest the enemy
wake up and do you in
the year after
in spite of everything
in spite of the fear.
I decided to risk it, without the slightest expection of survival
in spite of everything
the year after.
I decided to go back and see them, to retrace my steps, to
backtrack and make the trip
in order to tell them
very slowly and carefully and accurately
—what I believe—
to do it slowly and calmly and evenly
—because have I not always been, for them and for others
have I not always been a calm and collected man?
to annonce to them
just to say it, that’s all, to tell them
that my death was irremediable and would be taking place
soon
saying it myself as the only messenger
and at least appear
—perhaps to be what I always wanted to appear as, what I
myself decided and wished for in every circumstance and as
far back as I dare to remember—
here again at least appear to be the one to make the decision
to give myself and give to others to give to them to give it all
in fact, to you, to all of you, to her, even to those I don’t yet
know, (so what if it is too late, to hell with it)
to give myself and give others, be it only for the last time, the
illusion of being responsible for myself, and right unto to this
extremity, the illusion of being my own master.

Translation : Augy Hayter