CHAPTER 11. THE DESIGN FLAW

April 11, 2025.

“...At 99 years old, I am sitting before a writing desk and my trembling hand is slowly tracing these lines... birds are singing outside... nature is coming alive, for spring has arrived... children are playing in the yard... these little playful grasshoppers... My life, however, is approaching its end: my doctor told me that I would die soon, but he didn't say when—maybe in one day, or maybe in twenty years... What does 'soon' mean in his young mind?... I am sick, incurably sick, and my illness is life... Oh, what an amazing day this is! Exactly on this day, eighty years ago, I, a nineteen-year-old boy, along with other prisoners, raised a rebellion in Buchenwald and found freedom... there are memories that even time cannot erase... I have lived a very colorful life... I was rich... I perfectly understood that no amount of money or doctors could cure my ailment and that I would have to live with this disease, waiting for death...

“A moment before meeting death, my eyes were opened to this world for the first time in my life... I lived in abundance and never thought of anything bad, but now disturbing thoughts are coming to me... and I in no way wish to accept that I am mortal, I do not wish to leave everything that I have acquired here, to leave my status in society, because I am respected here and I have power here... here I consider myself valuable... here I wander through my exquisite house and look at expensive things: paintings, candlesticks, sofas, tables, chandeliers... all of this will no longer be mine when I die, and it is difficult for me to accept that, because I earned all of this with my hard work... What is the point of possessing all of this if it is so burdensome to leave it?... This world does not belong to us, and therefore no matter what we own, no matter what we have, it will all remain here, and we will be led out the door, not even being allowed to take our own flesh with us—in this world, you don't go out the door yourself, you are led out. People wanted to invent the philosopher's stone to have eternal life, but... but now, when your time is up, you are told—go away...

“Death wanders nearby—soon I will take off the mask from my face, set aside the brushes and the pen of my life: I have played my role in this world and am ready for death, nothing holds me here anymore, I have fulfilled my destiny and can leave with a clear conscience, knowing that on this soil beautiful flowers or weeds will grow, but I will no longer care!.. In this world, I have learned a lot... for example, that one can get rich quickly, for instance, by selling one's body, and more slowly—with the help of hard work: the result in both cases is wealth, but one path is thorny, and the second is easy—in the first case, you will go down in history as a courtesan, and in the second, as a genius!.. This world has allowed me to comprehend that there are always a lot of people in the hall, but few on the stage... when you trust God, you have no doubts about a successful result, and therefore you are left with only one thing—to enjoy the process that leads to the acquisition of success!.. when you have prepared a cake by yourself, you will get all of it—the more people help you, the more people you will have to share this cake with...

“Once, a friend of mine gave me, one of the richest people in Europe, a birthday gift of an unremarkable, ordinary stone that he had found shortly before that moment. I did not appreciate his gift and thought he had gone crazy. In response, he said to me—'Here, you are rich, but blind, for wealth has clouded your eyes and you have not learned to see much in simple things: you can carve anything you want from this stone, a talisman, a locket, a cross, which, in turn, can be sold for hundreds of thousands—you have not learned to see, and until you learn to do so, you will not comprehend or grasp our world... Some in this world try to shoot down the bird of happiness, others try to enslave it, and only the truly enlightened observe its flight from the side, sincerely admiring how it dances and sings for them... Oh, life! What was its meaning? Perhaps, in love? I came to know love thanks to the Almighty—He sent me girls and women so that my being would comprehend the difference between a decent one and one who lives in the spirit of the times: I had to first know evil in order to be able to distinguish it from good and appreciate good... to one who is unable to see, understand, and distinguish good, evil will be seen everywhere, in any country and on any continent, as if that person does not carry evil within himself, but it arrived in those locations long before his appearance there...

“My conscience, like a once-deceived creditor, has reminded my being of its existence throughout my life, always, and I do not hide that, arousing sincere and resonant irritation inside it... What kind of medicines have they not prescribed to me, but nothing could temporarily deafen or even destroy my ailment—the only thing that could give me relief, for insignificant moments, was a few gulps of the purest water—the most life-giving moisture on earth... The pencil races across the whiteness of the parchment, staining its darkness with the same swiftness with which my last days and minutes flew—in the last moments, life never moves at a slow pace, it strives to lose its form, limitations, and definitions, it strives for death!.. Many, looking at my life, said that I lived it poorly, others said that I lived it well, but what did I myself think about it? I lived my life neither poorly nor well, but just as I was supposed to—I lived and was alive: sometimes coarsely, sometimes gently, sometimes cold-bloodedly, and sometimes sensually—my hand is trembling... is it grieving over what was lost... or rejoicing in anticipation of what is to come?...

“Today, in my house, the devilish melody of Paganini's music is playing—many of those who surround me, for this reason, the reason of consuming the metaphysical flesh of Paganini, assume that I am preparing to enter the halls of hell, but... if I am to leave this world, entering the depths of paradise or the heights of hell, then it will definitely be to the music of Paganini! To Paganini's music, I loved and hated, was faithful and betrayed, was gentle and cruel—to Paganini's music, I lived!.. My thoughts, like the foam of the ocean, chaotically reside on the shores of my consciousness, and then disappear into nothingness, as if they never existed... On such a 99-year-old soil, the soil of a soul that has known the earthly world, I will never be able to grow the tree of hope—you don't grow peaches in a desert, and a palm tree has no place among Tuscan fields... Life is a celebration of death, and our flesh and our body are its carnival costumes... A waterfall of memories continuously cascades onto my peaceful soul, creating a certain movement at the point of contact, but then it can no longer shake what is preparing for an eternal, unshakeable, and therefore most sweet sleep... Death, wandering somewhere nearby, continuously asked me questions that summarized this path—the remnants of life in me did not have time to generate answers to these questions... In the last minutes of my life, I have thoughts of regret... regret not for what I will have to lose, everything that I created for so long and with such longing throughout my life, but for the fact that I did so little good for this world and for other people—in the last minutes of my life, I am thinking about others, and not about myself... Enough words!.. Silence is always more eloquent than words—it also emphasizes the significance of those words that did, after all, escape your lips!.. What is that... I hear a whistle... maybe the children are whistling?... it's too sharp... is that the voice of death?... is that what it sounds like?..”