He thinks sometimes the nature and extent of her suffering has lifted her free from the petty frustrations of mere inconvenience.

What can life be made to accommodate, what can one life hold inside itself without breaking.

It does put a question mark over the whole thing, the way people can get sick, and God does nothing to help them. It’s hard to understand. But I don’t think it means there’s nothing there.

Thought rises calmly to the surface of his mind: I wish I was dead. Same as everyone sometimes surely. Idea occurs, that is. Remembering something embarrassing you did years ago and abruptly you think: that’s it, I’m going to kill myself.

Death of his own illusions: desire to fight for something, all his sacred rage directed and useful for once.

Under what conditions is life endurable?

I try to, yeah, Ivan answers. Some kind of order in the universe, at least. I do feel that sometimes. Listening to certain music, or looking at art. Even playing chess, although that might sound weird. It’s like the order is so deep, and it’s so beautiful, I feel there must be something underneath it all. And at other times, I think it’s just chaos

Even to think about it is to live.

It doesn’t always work, but I do my best. See what happens. Go on in any case living.