(2 selected excerpts)

What tormented him most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason everyone had accepted: that he was not dying, but was merely ill, and that if he would only keep quiet and undergo the treatment, something very good would come of it. But he knew that whatever they did, there would be nothing ahead but greater suffering, pain, and death. This deception tormented him.

What tormented him was the fact that no one wanted to acknowledge what they all knew, and what he himself knew, but instead they wanted to lie to him about his terrible condition and force him to take part in the lie.

These lies—the lies they imposed on him on the eve of his death, reducing that terrible and solemn act to the same level as their visits, their curtains, and the fish they had for dinner—were a terrible torment for Ivan Ilyich. And strangely enough, when they behaved in this way before him, he could barely restrain himself from shouting at them: “Stop your lies! You know, and I know, that I am dying. At least stop lying!”

But he never had the courage to do so. He saw that the terrible and solemn act of his death had been reduced by those around him to the level of an accidental, unpleasant, and almost indecent incident—rather as though someone had entered a drawing room giving off an unpleasant smell. And this was being done by the very same propriety that he had served all his life. He saw that no one felt sorry for him, because no one even wanted to understand his situation.

[..........]

“What is this? Is it really death?” And the inner voice answered: “Yes, it is.” “Why this suffering?” And the voice answered: “For nothing. Just so. There is nothing beyond this.”

From the very beginning of his illness, from the day Ivan Ilyich first went to the doctor, his life had been divided into two opposing currents, one replacing the other. On one side was despair and the anticipation of the incomprehensible and terrible death; on the other, hope and the close observation of the workings of his body. At one moment he saw his kidney or the appendix that had failed to perform its function; at another, there was only the incomprehensible, terrible death from which there was no escape.

These two currents had alternated from the beginning of his illness. But as the illness progressed, thoughts about the kidney became increasingly doubtful and unreal, while the awareness of his approaching death became more and more real.