"I myself spent a lot of time,a hard time, a time of suffering, becoming something close to a milestone.But slowly, abruptly—the thought occurred to me that this story had no wit-ness: I was there—the “I” was already no more than a Who?, a whole crowdof Who?s—so that there would be no one between him and his destiny, sothat his face would remain bare and his gaze undivided. I was there, not inorder to see him, but so that he wouldn’t see himself, so that it would be mehe saw in the mirror, someone other than him—another, a stranger, nearby,gone, the shadow of the other shore, no one—and that in this way he wouldremain a man until the very end. He wasn’t to split in two. This is the greattemptation of those who are approaching their end: they look at themselvesand talk to themselves; they turn themselves into a solitude peopled by them-selves—the emptiest, the most false. But if I was present, he would be themost alone of all men, without even himself, without that last man which hewas—and thus he would be the very last. This was certainly capable offrightening me—such great duties, such naked feelings, such excessive cares.I could not respond except with carelessness, the motion of the days." Maurice Blanchot, Son Adam, The Last Man
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