'It's cancer,' said Björn, 'of the pancreas.' And, 'I'm going to die.' The corridor was empty, my students presumably gone for the weekend, and the walls enclosed us. I thought a lot of things at that moment: Illness as Metaphor, Susan Sontag, the symbolism of my Roman dead, all that. Björn began to cry. 'You mustn't come back to me out of pity,' he said as we walked side by side through the newly fallen snow along Grunewaldstrasse. = Czech: "Je to rakovina," řekl Björn, "rakovina slinivky břišní." A dodal: "Zemřu." Chodba byla prázdná, moji studenti už pravděpodobně na víkendu, a kolem nás jen zdi. Vté chvíli mě napadla spousta věcí: nemoc jako metafora, Susan Sontagová, symbolika mých římských mrtvých, všechno tohle. Björn se rozplakal.