Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered in search of a book, perhaps the catalogue of catalogues; now
that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born.

Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink
endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite. I say that the Library is unending.