FOR many years I have been obsessed with the idea of dying. It is impossible for me to conceive that this life has an end. Sometimes, as I am trying to fall asleep, I wonder if I have finished everything I have to do, if the tasks of life have been properly completed. The answer is no, probably because I always try to start doing too many things at the same time. For example, at the moment, I have about 12 books started and I am relieved to know that before the end of this month, I will have finished reading three.

When I tell a friend about this little obsession of mine, they always tell me that I'm too young to think about it. I have the feeling — and sometimes the conviction — that most of my fellow human beings live deluding themselves, trying to ignore the end that inevitably awaits us all. When I see so many people commenting on the series they watch on Netflix, I wonder: Is that really what they spend their free time on? Do they really aspire to nothing else in life?