Letter to a Child Never Born [antikvár]

Last night I knew you existed: a drop of life escaped from nothingness. I was lying, my eyes wide open in the darkness, and all at once I was certain you were there. You existed. It was as if a bullet had struck me. My heart stopped. And when it began to pound again, in gun bursts of wonder, I had the feeling I had been flung into a well so deep that everything was unsure and terrifying. Now I am locked in fear that soaks my face, my hair, my thoughts. I am lost in it. It is not fear of others. I don't care about others. It's not fear of God. I don't believe in God. It's not fear of pain. I have no fear of pain. It is fear of you, of the circumstance that has wrenched you out of nothingness to attach yourself to my body. I was never eager to welcome you, even though I've known for some time that you might exist someday. In that sense I have long awaited you. But still I've always asked myself the terrible question: What if you don't want to be bom? What if some day you were to cry out to reproach me: 'Who asked you to bring me into the world, why did you bring me into it, why?' Life is such an effort. Child. It's a war that is renewed each day, and its moments of joy are brief parentheses for which you pay a cruel price. How can I know that it wouldn't be better to throw you away? How can I tell that you wouldn't rather be returned to the silence? You cannot speak to me; your drop of life is only a cluster of cells that has scarcely begun. Perhaps it's not even life, only mere possibility of life. I wish that you could help me with even a nod, a slight sign. My mother claims that I gave