And I wonder why I read the Nibelungen, why I drink that blood. Why I shed those tears and why I need to go into mourning. You and I. Why do we read books that make us weep? Undoubtedly because we never have, in reality, enough to lament. We read to gamble with fire, with blood, with mourning, not because we are gamblers but because we need to almost die. We need to mourn for ourselves. And yet to stay alive.