Max looked into himself. In contrast to the outward light which
never went out he saw within himself impenetrable, heavy, and
motionless darkness. In that darkness his love and faith were buried.

Max did not know whether time was moving or whether it stood
motionless. The same even, white light poured down on him--the same
silence and quiet. Only by the beating of his heart Max could judge
that Chronos had not left his chariot. His body was aching ever more
from the unnatural position in which it lay, and the constant light
and silence were growing ever more tormenting. How happy are they
for whom night exists, near whom people are shouting, making noise,
beating drums; who may sit on a chair, with their feet hanging down,
or lie with their feet outstretched, placing the head in a corner and
covering it with the hands in order to create the illusion of darkness.

Max made an effort to recall and to picture to himself what there is
in life; human faces, voices, the stars.... He knew that his eyes
would never in life see that again. He knew it, and yet he lived.
He could have destroyed himself, for there is no position in which a
man can not do that, but instead Max worried about his health, trying
to eat, although he had no appetite, solving mathematical problems to
occupy his mind so as not to lose his reason. He struggled against
death as if it were not his deliverer, but his enemy; and as if life
were to him not the worst of infernal tortures--but love, faith, and
happiness. Gloom in the Past, the grave in the Future, and infernal
tortures in the Present--and yet he lived. Tell me, John N., where
did he get the strength for that?

He hoped.