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Title: My Suicide
Author: Henri Roorda
Date: 1926
Language: en
Topics: suicide, autobiography, joyful pessimism
Source: Retrieved on 11/13/21 from https://spurleditions.com/my-suicide
Notes: First published in Switzerland as Mon suicide in 1926. Translated by Eva Richter in 2015 for Spurl Editions.

Henri Roorda

My Suicide

INTRODUCTION

For a long time I have promised myself that I would write a small book

called Joyful Pessimism. This title pleases me. I like the sound it

makes and it decently expresses what I would like to say. But I believe

I have waited too long: I have aged, and there will probably be more

pessimism than joy in my book. Our heart is not a perfect thermos that

conserves the ardor of our youth until the end, without losing anything.

Every now and then, the prospect of my very probable and imminent

suicide takes away what is left of my good humor. I will need to make

every effort to ensure that the content of my book conforms to its

title. After thinking it over, I believe that the expression “joyful

pessimism” could make some buyers hesitate. They will not understand. My

Suicide is a more tempting title. The public has a pronounced taste for

melodrama. I would like for my suicide to bring a little money to my

creditors. So I thought I should go and see Fritz, the owner of the

Grand Café. I wanted to say, “Announce a conference on suicide by

Balthasar in the newspapers, and add in bold type, ‘The speaker will

commit suicide at the end of the conference.’ Then, in smaller letters,

‘Seats for 20 fr., 10 fr., 5 fr., and 2 fr.’ (The price of drinks will

be triple.) I am sure we will have a crowd.” But I gave up on this idea.

Fritz would have surely refused, since my suicide might leave an

indelible stain on the floor of his decent establishment. And then the

police, completely illegally, would undoubtedly have prohibited the

performance.

Balthasar.

I LIKE THE EASY LIFE

After working hard for thirty-three years, I am tired. But I still have

a magnificent appetite. It is this fine appetite that made me do so many

stupid things. Happy are those who have bad stomachs, because they will

always be virtuous. Perhaps I did not observe the rules of hygiene well

enough. In living hygienically, it seems one can grow quite old. This

never tempted me. From now on, I would like to lead a comfortable and

primarily contemplative existence. With an intoxicated mind, with

fleeting emotions, I would like to admire the beauty of the world and

enjoy “earthly nourishment” from morning until night. But if I remained

on earth, I would not have this easy life that so tempts me. To repair

the mistakes I have made, I would need to carry out monotonous tasks and

bear terrible privations for a long time to come. I would rather go.

STOCKPILE

My dream of an easy life is not an impossible dream. Every year, more

virtuous or more able men than I achieve it. They are sensible

individuals who, in anticipation of their old age, have stockpiled

supplies their entire lives. A French statesman once gave the young

people of his country some brutal advice: “Get rich!” This remark used

to scandalize me, for I received a moral education of superior quality.

Eloquent speakers told me, “Always defend the cause of the oppressed!” I

took this to heart, and in my family I was always the champion of our

good servant. But perhaps injustice, as has been claimed, is better than

disorder, because each time I made my timid interventions they provoked

regrettable scenes. Without misleading me, my educators could have told

me: “Humanity is poor; this means that it must work tremendously, never

flagging, to make the various riches that the earth can produce usable.

Desirable or useful things are in short supply. This is why the

farsighted man, through his cunning or through a few happy accidents,

keeps the supplies that he needs to persevere locked in cabinets – most

frequently, in safes. Because he knows he will age. A day will come when

he will not want to produce anymore, but will still feel the need to

consume. On this day, he will not be able to rest and enjoy life unless

he has his stockpile. “Social wealth is limited in quantity; work is

tiring; the human being is condemned to age and weaken. That, we cannot

change. These three conditions explain the envy of the poor and the

precautions that the rich man takes so that his safe is not broken into.

They explain the laws that men have made so that there may be an

enduring social order.” This is what my educators should have explained

to me. But they mainly talked about progress and the society of the

future. For many years I was the convinced collaborator of utopians who

were preparing the happiness of humanity. Because the poor are very

numerous, they may manage to establish “justice” in the distribution of

supplies. The prospect of a well organized socialist state, in which

individuals will enjoy material security, does not bother me at all.

When we are sure of getting the food we need each day, we can think of

other things – we have a free spirit. In today’s world, where “liberty”

reigns, most men are anxious. But if socialism triumphs, what kind of

food could a person count on? Will he have to settle for bread, for

milk, for fresh vegetables, and for “egalitarian” macaroni without

cheese? Frugality, abstinence, and virtue will undoubtedly be mandatory,

so that there may be enough food for everyone. Opulence for all would

demand an awesome collective effort. As for me, I would like a society

in which work chores are reduced to a minimum, and every day one has

many hours to love, to enjoy one’s body, and to play with one’s

intelligence. My dream is absurd. No matter how you conceive of it,

lasting happiness is impossible. It is perhaps not wrong to tell man,

“You will eat bread by the sweat of your brow.” But must man wish for

life to continue? Society defends itself against the egotism of the

individual because it wants to go on. Why go on? Toward what desirable

future are we going? The Creator, who appears to be very intelligent,

must say to himself every so often that his work is pointless. I am

rambling. To think, to reflect, is the work of an imperfect

intelligence. The Infinite Intelligence does not think – it merges with

absolute stupidity! God surely says nothing at all. If you talk to me

about the best interests of humanity, I do not understand. But I like

saddle of venison and aged Burgundy wine. And I know what may exist of

the marvelous in poetry, in music, and in a woman’s smile.

MONEY

I have already said it: those who educated me were not stubborn, greedy

peasants. They were generous utopians. At the age of twenty, I really

believed that money was not important. They had made me feel all the

ugliness of the capitalist regime. What also distorted my judgment was

that no one was cruel to me. I always had such good friends that I

continue to think too well of myself. Once or twice, following their

friendly suggestions, I tried to put away some supplies. But I ate them

right away. Today I see my serious errors all too clearly, but it is too

late. I understood the important role money plays in modern society

belatedly. Now I know. When I enter one of the magnificent banks

recently constructed in Lausanne, I feel a sacred emotion; I am in the

temple of the living religion. There are no hypocrites among the

faithful whom I encounter there: none of them doubts that his god is

all-powerful. Money makes happiness. During the Great War of 1914, rich

men generously sacrificed their children on the altar of the fatherland.

But later, when the fatherland needed money, these virtuous men put

their fortunes in a safe place. Their consciences did not tell them to

make the ultimate sacrifice. Not only can the person who has enough

money live comfortably, hygienically, and agreeably, but he also has the

leisure to cultivate his “private flowerpot,” Humble geranium or

triumphant palm tree. The rich man can change his life. The poor man

cannot hope to. If the profession he has engaged in for some years

suddenly repulses him, he must continue anyway. To take on a new

apprenticeship, to begin in a new direction, all of this would require

money. The poor and the rich can make the same mistakes, but these

mistakes will have less serious consequences for the rich. If I had

money, I would not inflict the death penalty on myself, and I could

console the one whom I harmed so much. The rich man has a choice: he can

be generous or not be. If he wanted, he could lead a life of poverty for

a few years. The poor man does not have the choice. When a man has an

iron will, he can very well do without wealth. Ordinarily, though, the

pauper replaces the “indomitable spirit” that he lacks with resignation.

Very poor, very honest people are undernourished beings. Watch them:

their souls radiate no warmth. They are nourished just enough to be able

to continue. Besides, that is the only thing that society demands of

them. I imagine the faces the rich would make if the poor made a habit

of killing themselves to shorten their gray existences. They would

surely say that it is immoral. And what wouldn’t they do to keep their

prisoners from escaping! It is easy for the rich man to forget his great

sorrows: he can leave, and, in changing his setting, every now and then

he can also change the course of his thoughts. Who knows if, in paying

this high price, he will not find the woman who will love him “for him”?

When she has a lot of money, an ugly woman appears less ugly. The rich

Monsieur T. speaks with so much self-confidence that one does not notice

right away that he is an idiot. As for the poor man, he is exposed to

humiliations every day. Because they are poor, spouses who have stopped

loving each other, people who hate each other, often must continue

living together. Separation is not in every budget. The rich man is not

forced to be a hypocrite – he has security. Having money means being

able to count on the future. Money is a life to come. The poor will

always be among us: a society composed only of the rich would not be

viable. But for the individual who has no taste for hard labor, there

remains a recourse – that is to go.

I LIVED BADLY

In his final moments, the dying Socrates remembered the rooster he owed

to one of the deities of his time, and he was eager to honestly “put his

affairs in order.” When you owe no more than a rooster, that is easy.

Me, I owe a thousand roosters, and since I know that I will never have

enough energy or virtue to restore them all, I will inflict the death

penalty on myself. This will put an end to the intolerable anxiety in

me. And I like to think that the justice of men will be satisfied. So I

recognize the seriousness of my mistakes. I should have lived

differently. One should not rely too much on the supplies of neighbors.

But I cannot judge myself too severely, because I always had excellent

intentions. When I used to say, “I’ll return your rooster on September

30^(th),” I was absolutely sincere. I was even so assured of my

sincerity that an hour later I was thinking of something else. And as I

have always had a rich appetite, I would happen to eat, without meaning

any harm, the roosters that I should have safeguarded until September

30^(th). Full of optimism, I vaguely counted on the future. I had often

heard it said that fortune comes when you sleep.

I looked down on storekeepers for a long time. I thought that my soul

was more beautiful than theirs. When Monsieur K. would tell me with

pride, “I have always honored my signature,” I did not admire him. His

commercial integrity is certain. But when he has not signed any papers,

K. has fewer scruples. If he has the chance, he is not afraid to scrimp

and save a little from the meager salaries of his employees. And he does

not always respond to his clients’ questions with total loyalty. The law

does not require the retailer to tell the whole truth to the first one

who comes around; it does not punish all kinds of human boorishness. A

professor who receives his pay at the end of the month is often a naïf

who makes an absurd idea out of life, because he has too much time to

spend on disinterested speculation. In our world of traders and

financiers, the normal man is he who, from morning until night, thinks

only of money. He knows that life is a battle that starts again every

day. He understands the need to be attentive and careful. I observed him

many times: in his conversations, the banker M. never reveals himself

completely; he is a man with thoughts to hide. In judging myself better

than K. and M., I was vain and stupid. You need strength to make and

save money; you need none to spend it. These men’s ways of getting rich

often lack elegance, but they are legal. Monsieur K. did his duty. He

has his stockpile and he will be able to give a small dowry to each of

his daughters. My intelligent taste for luxury never helped me grow

stronger; as a delicate man I lived to lavishly spend the money others

earned. I will go, because it would be too difficult to bear the

consequences of my shameful lack of foresight. Young people, get rich!

IT’S A BAD DEED

Rousseau would tell me that my suicide will be a bad deed because, in

living, I could still do a little good. Yes, my old Rousseau, you are

right; but if I kept living, I would also do plenty of harm. I would not

be cruel – there is no cruelty in me – but my egotism could cause

suffering. All the same, Rousseau’s objection bothers me. By going, I

abandon the companion-victim who, during the long voyage we made

together, always carried my bag. A person gets used to his companion’s

generosity very quickly. There must be many of these couples, with one

partner the devoted servant of the other, and the other never even

noticing. For society to continue in its current form,[1] individuals

must marry and start families. But in the vast majority of cases,

marriage is a link that causes suffering. Two people “who are made for

each other” are not necessarily made to live together, from morning

until night and from night until morning, for forty years straight.

Because they are endowed with sensitivity and imagination (by the simple

fact that they are alive), man and woman are unable to obey the

representative of the state who tells them, “From now on, your feelings

must not change.”

Philippe came to see me, and I listened to his secrets with great

interest. He has been married for twenty-five years! Those who marry

never know what they are doing. Philippe is one of those men who can

only love ideas in a lasting way. His very lively taste for

philosophical speculation made him inattentive, a dreamer not

particularly concerned with the people in his milieu. Because his mind

was elsewhere, he often forgot to be affectionate. After one year his

wife was already suffering from loneliness in their marriage. He told

me, “Bit by bit, without my noticing, I let all the threads that

connected me to a partner I loved, who is pretty and worth much more

than most women, wear out and break. We gradually lost the habit of

intimacy and tender words. Today I see the harm I caused without malice:

my partner has been alone for twenty-five years. But it is too late. I

would like to tell her that I think of her very fondly, but that is

impossible for me. My affectionate gestures of the past would now be so

unusual, so unexpected, that shyness paralyzes me. And then, in my mind,

a husband’s duty is perhaps nothing more than a moral notion. Under

ashes, the fire ends up going out. “We live together without telling

each other the things we constantly think about. She never complains –

but her presence is for me a reproach. And now, because I suffer like

her from this mute life, I escape every day and seek the appearance of

tenderness from the girl who serves me my tea and my port.” Marriage can

be an atrocious thing.

THE ETHICS TEACHER AND THE PHYSIOLOGIST

Ethics teachers are civil servants (among the professionals there are,

by the way, many amateurs) paid by the state to intimidate the

individual while he is still young, so that later he will be ashamed to

show himself as he is. This is an excellent way for society to defend

itself and, in the process, reduce the size of its police to a minimum.

When I came into the world, if my memory does not deceive me, I was

perfectly innocent. At what age was I corrupted? And why was I

corrupted? The gentleman who speaks for God tells me, “God had the

goodness to give you the freedom and ability to distinguish good from

evil.” I respond to him, “God forgot to give me enough will to resist

temptation.” The man retorts, “You were free. If you had wanted to, you

could have.” I reply, “Why didn’t I have enough will to want to?” This

discussion will not end. They want me to be “responsible” in order to

have the right to punish myself: that’s all. By instilling a feeling of

duty in the individual, the state is cleverer and less brutal than if it

contented itself by invoking the law of the strongest in case of

conflict. Often, to satisfy our true desires, our true needs, we can

harm our neighbors. So our social duty is to frustrate our underlying

nature; the individual must become what he physiologically is not. We

should not be surprised if an educator’s work on the young produces many

hypocrites and a few rebels. Can we seriously tell a very stupid young

man, “Your duty is to become intelligent”? The moralizers are usually

reasonable enough not to do so. But they reproach the dreamy, lymphatic

person for expending less energy than the vigorous man in perfect

health. They recommend the same sobriety to the sick as they do to the

individual whose stomach is excellent and whose appetite is enormous.

Regardless of the essential differences that already distinguish us from

each other when we come into the world, the educators show us all the

same model and tell us, “Here are the virtues that you must acquire.” An

ethics teacher and a physiologist who know my life would not use the

same expressions to describe me. And if my portrait was made by a

theosophist, it would be different once more. Yet I am who I am. Our

judgments of others depend above all on our own habits of mind. They

will speak harshly of my horrible egotism and my lack of morals. But

there are many ways of being egotistic and there are also many ways to

be moral. I would like to be judged by a physiologist-psychologist who

has carefully studied the little mechanism that controls my soul’s

movements. I am inclined to think that a transmission belt has been

broken for a while in my little internal machine. In the beginning, it

is this belt that communicated to the cog of my will the movements of my

emotions. Now my generous thoughts (I have them sometimes) do not have

the power to make me act. Indeed, my essential motor, the so-called

“vital instinct,” must be in very bad shape, because without being ill,

I prefer death to an existence that will have daily chores, worries, and

privations, as almost all forms of existence do. A friend remarked to me

that if I continued to live, my life would still appear desirable to

most people. He is right. But I do not understand these old, poor, and

unhappy beings who absolutely want to go on. What do they hope for?

Among them, there are recluses who like no one and invalids who increase

the burden that their relations bear. I need to live drunkenly. Many

times, going to school in the morning, I was depressed because I was

beginning another day in which there would be nothing, nothing but the

accomplishment of a professional duty. I am not a virtuous man, because

this prospect was not enough for me. I need to glimpse moments of

exaltation and joy in the near future. I am not happy except when I

adore something. I do not understand the indifference with which so many

people endure these empty hours every day in which they do nothing but

wait. My impatience, which led me to so many mistakes, surely must also

be explained by the nature of my imagination and the state of my nerves.

(It seems that I still care a little about what will be said about me

after my death, because I am trying to exonerate myself. But really,

what others say about us is too ridiculous!)

I am an egotist who loved very much. I wasted my tenderness like I

wasted my money. There must have been a production defect in my thermal

engine, because heat constantly escaped that was immediately lost in the

immense void. Those who approached me were often warmed up in a minute

by my tepid radiance. One day I had a lot of trouble grabbing hold of an

old countrywoman, seventy years old, who wanted to kneel before me to

kiss my hands. Tricked by the sound of my voice and by my absolute lack

of arrogance and stiffness, she thought that I was basically good. Yes,

I am good, but an inactive kind of good. I am much less useful than

certain people who are stiff because they are resolute. There are

prudent people who only cautiously release the strings to their heart.

They do not know how to give a good welcome to the stranger who

approaches. Me, I smile right away if the stranger has a pretty head.

This is due to the extreme mobility of my zygomatic muscle. One time an

old philosopher told me, “Benevolence is at the core of your nature.”

And, as the servants say, I could provide even more good references. If

the conditions of my life had been different, no one would have suffered

from my egotism. In particular, in the land of plenty, I would have

fulfilled my social duty in an exemplary way. An immoral man is

sometimes nothing more than a moral man who is not in his place. I say

all of this to reassure myself. Today I would be less disgusted with

life if for twenty years I had really been good to a single person,

ignoring the rest of humanity. The harm I did is irreparable. I made a

soul despair. I destroyed something infinitely precious and unique. I

did an evil thing that I could not pay for with all the sentimental

money I gave away, cent by cent, to strangers.

THE INDIVIDUAL AND SOCIETY

Everything good in me I owe to society. In today’s world, if I had to

count only on my superior skeletal force, I would not be able to feed or

defend myself. Even the individual who can live alone in the wilderness

was first nurtured in a social environment, which fitted him with all

the weapons he needs. I would not know how to speak if I had not been

born among humans. Humans taught me to think. Society showed me all the

beautiful things that made me love life. I know that to go on, society

needs violence and lies, but it was society’s writers who spoke of

justice and put the spirit of revolt in me. I owe to others everything I

have: my ideas and my joys, as well as my clothes. But, soon enough,

society takes back everything it gave us. After putting in our minds

exciting images, it stops us, with its morals and laws, from satisfying

our desires and often our most urgent needs. Its educators begin by

cultivating in us the taste for what is beautiful; then it makes our

life ugly, turning us into machines. Society is strongest: it easily

gets rid of individuals who embarrass and bother it. But in many cases

the individual is right – he is already the representative of a better

society. In revolting against society, he sometimes accomplishes his

social duty. For life to continue, men must consent to be machines for

long hours every day. But the machine is not everything. We make

automatons and maniacs of those people whose task is to enrich the inner

lives of young people. For thirty-three years I have taught my students

elementary mathematics. Every year, every day, I deliver the rules and

unchanging formulas. (As for my digressions, they are certainly against

regulations.) There are phrases that I have had to say so often that

disgust sometimes stops them on my lips. The state does not give those

who teach schoolchildren the chance to change their work and thus

rejuvenate their thoughts. What about young people’s enthusiasm? No,

enthusiasm is dangerous. Me, I like beginnings, departures, new

inspirations. “Ah, the first flowers and their perfume!”[2] Every day I

must speak to the children entrusted to me of things that will occupy a

very small part of their life. In my heart I excuse the “lazy” ones who

find it all boring. To hold their attention I must make noises and use

much of my good humor. The school is at fault for teaching everyone too

many things that are interesting only to certain specialists. The child,

we say, must learn to obey. Fine! But adults must learn to command

reasonably. I was built to love my profession. My cordiality would have

certainly been helpful if, instead of being the master of my students, I

could have been their mentor. The prospect of taking up my lessons again

would depress me less if those who pay me said, “You will give these

children the best of your thoughts.” I hardly resemble those civil

servants who are proud to be “cogs” in the social machine. I need to be

moved by the truths that I teach.

STAID PEOPLE, GOOD CITIZENS

I have compared myself more than once, and with some shame, to people

who are very staid and who, every day, simply do their duty, are thrifty

and sober, and give their children a good education. Looking at them, I

have said, “Here is how I should have lived.” I do not have any of the

ridiculous disdain certain “bohemians” have for the bourgeois. Some of

the virtues that staid people possess are of an inestimable value; to

not have them is to be continually at risk of committing the most

serious offenses. There are modest employees and small-business owners

who, for thirty or forty years running, make every effort to ensure

their children will have better lives than their own. Thinking of them,

I easily become emotional. (It is true that emotion comes easily to me –

I have a taste for tears.) But I am writing this last book to explain

myself, and I am also writing it to protest in advance against the

severity with which I will be judged. I feel the need to defend the

egotistic individual against the demands of morality. It is staid

people, the friends of order, who maintain the stability of the social

edifice. So it is important that their numbers be considerable. It is

they who start families. They make little ones in their image, and

these, in turn, reproduce, and life continues. They are told, “Grow and

multiply!” And they obey. Must we unreservedly admire these respectful

beings who are so good at playing their role of good citizen? What would

life’s appeal be if society were composed only of such beings? It is

perhaps their lack of imagination that lets them be so uniformly

virtuous. They live prudently, only allowing small, authorized things

into their lives; they monitor their gestures and words; they never have

great desires; they do not know elation and adoration. And respect often

makes them dumb. From time to time, disorder must break out in the world

so that new things may be born. Disorder is always provoked by bad

citizens, fanatics drunk with words. I understand these people. I excuse

their weaknesses. Like them, I need to live drunkenly. I need many

dazzling minutes in my life. Poetry and music can provide these. And I

also become excited when thinking of the work that I will begin. Would

we begin a task if first of all we were not moved by the beauty of what

we will create? Good wine and meals also gave me moments of profound

joy. There are wines that are so noble that in drinking them, I feel the

need to thank someone. Finally I feel strong, I am not afraid of

anything; an immense confidence fills me in the all-too-rare moments

when a woman smiles at me. It is obvious: the Great Mechanic did not

construct my little internal machine with much care. He forgot to put in

a regulator. This explains the disordered movements of my soul. It has

been impossible for me to resemble those prudent, patient, and

far-sighted beings who from the age of twenty stockpile for their final

days. For me, normal life is joyous life. The unreasonable individual

that I am does not want to take into account all the facts of the great

problem. I was not made to live in a world where a person must

consecrate his youth to preparing for old age.

THAT WHICH LASTS TOO LONG

Philippe came back to my house. He told me, “There are things inside us

that last too long. Yesterday at the café, I saw an old man stretch his

trembling hand toward the blouse of the young woman bringing him a glass

of beer. It was hideous. “I’m determined to die before I look like that

awful old man. Because the same danger threatens us all. Our heart

doesn’t want to forget. There is an age in which our need for love is

explained by the species’ will to live. But, a long time after that,

when he can no longer play a useful role, man can again become obsessed

by desires that serve no purpose. I don’t know if it’s society or nature

that is responsible for the disharmonies from which we all suffer. A

pointless question, anyway, because it’s all mixed up. I told you that

every day I go to Adrienne and ask her for tenderness. She lets me look

into her eyes for a long time and timidly caress her shoulder. I could

contemplate the adorable line of her neck for hours without getting

bored. When she is close to me, I have certainty, I have faith; I know

that there is something infinitely good in life. Nothing is better than

this ‘free’ love that is condemned by honest people. “I realized that

too late. For a long time, I loved chimeras and held only emptiness in

my arms. Reassured by my timidity, Adrienne sometimes has an encouraging

smile. But, at the moment of holding my hands out to her, I balk: I am

embarrassed! She is young and I’m not anymore. I could be her father ...

do you understand that?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Another person would be satisfied just caressing her soft skin. But me,

I’m starved for tenderness.”

“Think of how many furtive looks men and women exchange when they see

each other in the street or in some public place. Too moral or too

timid, they repress their instincts. In the world, millions of hearts

are going hungry.”

“In a profound darkness in which she could not see my white hair, I want

to madly hold in my arms a woman who would feel the same way I do.”

“It’s impossible. We are all condemned to solitude. A French doctor

could say, ‘Most men die of sorrow.’ This doesn’t stop life from going

on. Nature only wants a momentary coming together of the sexes, and it

is in vain that the individual searches for lasting happiness in love.”

“Man is condemned to sorrow because he has imagination, because he

thinks, because he abandoned his animal nature.”

“Philippe, you’re right. There are hearts that our stupid morality

condemns to a youth that is too short and an old age that is too long.

Old age is useless. If I had created the world, I would have put love at

the end of life. People would have been sustained until the end by a

great and confused hope.”

LAST THOUGHTS BEFORE DYING

Everything is physiology. My reasons for going would not be enough for

someone other than me. My way of feeling is not the same as everyone

else’s. To keep me in this life, my friends offered to help. But I am so

used to the idea of my imminent death that I refused. The prospect of

recommencing a life in which there would, again, likely be worries and

humiliations does not tempt me. I have to believe that there is an

essential motivation in me that is all used up. The reasons I have given

thus do not explain everything. The truth, as a writer tells it who

wants to be sincere, is always something more or less “organized.” There

are abnormal existences that end very naturally in suicide.

That’s all. I will kill myself soon. I do not deserve this punishment. I

am sure that I have had fewer terrible thoughts than most of those good

citizens who succeed and who will never think of suicide. The beautiful

verses that I have recited to myself spread purity in my soul. Every day

they have brought me one minute of emotion. Oh, I would like to stay on

earth!

A person who is totally devoid of malice can still do enormous damage. I

would like to ask forgiveness of someone, but the words that I need to

say do not exist.

Over the course of a day my mood often changes. There are moments I

forget that I will die. So I smile and hum the tunes that I like. There

is still a great store of joyfulness in me. To destroy all that is a

waste. I never knew how to be frugal.

I have the pleasure of writing this little book about my suicide. While

I work, my thoughts are as pure as a child’s.

Many people consider suicide a crime. But they do not acknowledge that

there are two types of boorishness: that of criminals and that of honest

men. A minimum of boorishness is indispensable for life. A philosopher

said, “I do not know what a criminal can be, but the heart of an honest

man is hideous.”

Since I hid a loaded revolver in my bedsprings I do not fear the future.

I really love life. But, to enjoy the spectacle, you need to have a good

seat. On earth, most places are bad, though it is true that the

spectators are usually not very demanding.

Every now and then my suicide seems a little like a “farce” to me. Oh!

Why is the line that separates trivial things from serious things not

better marked?

Am I unhappy, or do the hopeless words that I say to myself make me

think that I am? It is impossible for us to distinguish our real pains

from our imaginary ones. Which is real? Which is not?

Music calms me. I feel that it forgives me. I am sure that all the poets

would forgive me. (I do not speak, of course, of those patriots who

compose poems for the state.)

For a few days, many things have not interested me at all anymore.

Everything related to literature seems so shallow, and it would be

difficult for me to take part in the discussions that rouse men. I find

conversations more insipid than ever. But I have developed a true idea

of the infinitely precious things that I will lose. It seems to me that

I can now better distinguish what has value in life. I am happy to see

the sky, trees, flowers, animals, people. I am happy to SEE. I am happy

to still be alive. I would like to put my hands on Alice’s breasts one

more time to not be alone.

For more than twenty-five years I was passionately interested in a

problem that I considered very important. Today I see my error: I was

not interested in it because I recognized its importance; rather,

without doubting myself, I affirmed its importance because I took it up.

Observe those who for a long time have been occupied with national

defense, or public hygiene, or schools, or “art for the people”: each of

them is a victim of the same illusion; each one fervently accomplishes

his task without according much importance to what others do. The real

importance of problems cannot be measured. The universe will have much

less importance when I am gone.

No longer having any work to undertake, I sometimes feel like I am on

vacation.

I am a player who would like nothing better than to keep playing, but

who does not want to accept the rules of the game.

There is so much hypocrisy in those who go on living. Would social life

be possible without lies? No.

Lies, hypocrisy: perhaps these are what best distinguish man from

animal.

I adore wine. It momentarily rejuvenates my exhausted soul. Vice is

loving something too much. There are two types of virtuous people: those

whose desires are weak and who easily resist temptation, and those who

deliberately go against their true nature. These latter types are rare.

Among them are madmen who torture themselves to please God, and

exceptionally good people who sacrifice themselves out of love or pity.

They are the only ones who can make me feel my inferiority. The others

are not any better than I am. They are prudent people who do not love

anything passionately. They progress slowly in life, and they never fall

because they do not lean left or right. Those who succeed, those capable

ones, they are tightrope walkers. Why should we be virtuous? For life to

continue. And why should life continue? God cannot answer man’s every

“why.” If he did respond, he would undoubtedly say that he created the

world because he could not do otherwise, and he would decline all

responsibility. We are all the same. In a slim collection of philosopher

Charles Secrétan’s reflections, I found these words: “In the creature’s

love of God, the goal of creation is attained.”[3] But if God wanted

only to be worshipped, he could have found less cruel means.

Myself, I could only love a human God.

My suicide will be judged harshly. But since the great majority of

people are mediocre and unintelligent beings, what importance should I

give to public opinion? Oh, no! Respectable people are not better than

me. I am comforted when I compare myself to those who speak for the

state before the masses. What prudence! What banality! And often, what

baseness!

Walking around, I looked closely at a few passersby. I worked out their

way of life, their habits, their mentality. I thought of everything they

would be unable to do. The individual is everything; for things to be

beautiful, there first must exist a living being capable of feeling that

beauty.

I had an absolutely false idea of life. I attached too much importance

to what is exceptional: enthusiasm, excitement, drunkenness. What

occupies almost everything in a person’s life is daily monotonous tasks,

hours of waiting, hours in which nothing happens. The normal man is he

who knows how to vegetate.

My crime is not having had compassion for the unlucky person I saw every

day – and to think that I am moved so easily!

The time of my suicide is coming. I am so alive that I do not feel the

approach of death.

I sometimes look jealously at passersby who are totally without

prestige, because they will continue to live.

I remember a cartoon in L’Assiette au beurre that showed a lawyer

defending a criminal before a jury. This lawyer said, “Yes, we stole, we

raped, we murdered. But it was in the name of God, the tsar, and the

fatherland.” And to think that in certain countries, there are still

well-educated, virtuous, universally honored Christian people who are

imperialists! They do not see what is so shameful in their patriotism.

Frankly, being an immoral man, I am not anxious for the respect of good

citizens. “How brilliant the sunsets, how warm the air, how huge the

sky: the size of own souls.”[4]

I will put a bullet in my heart. That will surely be less painful than a

bullet in my head. I am not afraid of what will happen to me after,

because I have faith: I know that I will not go before the supreme

judge. It is only on earth that there are ridiculous tribunals. But all

the same I will be afraid. To relax, I will first drink a half-bottle of

old port. Maybe I will botch it. If laws were made by charitable men, we

would facilitate the suicides of those who want to go.

Some friends came again, offering to help me and heal me. I refused,

because I know that nothing could clear the desires, the images, and the

thoughts that have been in my mind for forty years.

I must take precautions so that the shot does not reverberate too

strongly in the heart of a sensitive being.

HENRI ROORDA’S SUICIDE NOTE

6 Nov. 1925

Dear friend,

Yesterday I lied to you. I had to be careful because I do not want

anyone to stop me from killing myself. When you receive this letter, I

will be dead (at least if I do not fail).

I have exhausted everything in me and around me, and that is

irreparable.

Goodbye. H.R.

BIOGRAPHY

Henri Roorda van Eysinga was born on November 30, 1870, and killed

himself on November 7, 1925. He was raised amidst revolutionary ideals:

when he was a child, his family had to relocate to Switzerland after his

father was declared persona non grata by the Dutch government, and there

his parents befriended the anarchist thinkers Élisée Reclus and Peter

Kropotkin. The young Roorda studied math and went on to work as a

teacher who was beloved by his students; he was, however, deeply

disappointed by his work. Accordingly, Roorda wrote a progressive

critique of the prevailing educational structure (Le Pédagogue n’aime

pas les enfants), as well as humorous columns for the Swiss dailies,

which were collected in numerous compilations. He frequently wrote under

the name Balthasar. Before he died, he left behind a brief note to a

friend and his final text, My Suicide (Mon suicide).

FOOTNOTES

[1] Will there one day be a society that is very different from our own,

in which individuals will be able to come together and separate from

each other more easily?

[2] Ah! les premières fleurs, qu’elles sont parfumées! – Nevermore, by

Paul Verlaine

[3] Dans l’amour de la créature pour son Dieu, le but de la création est

atteint.

[4] Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!

Que l’espace est profond! que le coeur est puissant! – Le Balcon, by

Charles Baudelaire