However, I began to feel the planks carefully.  The coffin was roomy, and I found that I was able to move my arms with tolerable ease.  On both sides the roughly planed boards were stout and resistive.  I slipped my arm onto my chest to raise it over my head.  There I discovered in the top plank a knot in the wood which yielded slightly at my pressure.  Working laboriously, I finally succeeded in driving out this knot, and on passing my finger through the hole I found that the earth was wet and clayey.  But that availed me little.  I even regretted having removed the knot, vaguely dreading the irruption of the mold.  A second experiment occupied me for a while.  I tapped all over the coffin to ascertain if perhaps there were any vacuum outside.  But the sound was everywhere the same.  At last, as I was slightly kicking the foot of the coffin, I fancied that it gave out a clearer echoing noise, but that might merely be produced by the sonority of the wood.

At any rate, I began to press against the boards with my arms and my closed fists.  In the same way, too, I used my knees, my back and my feet without eliciting even a creak from the wood.  I strained with all my strength, indeed, with so desperate an effort of my whole frame, that my bruised bones seemed breaking.  But nothing moved, and I became insane.

Until that moment I had held delirium at bay.  I had mastered the intoxicating rage which was mounting to my head like the fumes of alcohol; I had silenced my screams, for I feared that if I again cried out aloud I should be undone.  But now I yelled; I shouted; unearthly howls which I could not repress came from my relaxed throat.  I called for help in a voice that I did not recognize, growing wilder with each fresh appeal and crying out that I would not die.  I also tore at the wood with my nails; I writhed with the contortions of a caged wolf.  I do not know how long this fit of madness lasted, but I can still feel the relentless hardness of the box that imprisoned me; I can still hear the storm of shrieks and sobs with which I filled it; a remaining glimmer of reason made me try to stop, but I could not do so.

Great exhaustion followed.  I lay waiting for death in a state of somnolent pain.  The coffin was like stone, which no effort could break, and the conviction that I was powerless left me unnerved, without courage to make any fresh attempts.  Another suffering—­hunger—­was presently added to cold and want of air.  The torture soon became intolerable.  With my finger I tried to pull small pinches of earth through the hole of the dislodged knot, and I swallowed them eagerly, only increasing my torment.  Tempted by my flesh, I bit my arms and sucked my skin with a fiendish desire to drive my teeth in, but I was afraid of drawing blood.

Then I ardently longed for death.  All my life long I had trembled at the thought of dissolution, but I had come to yearn for it, to crave for an everlasting night that could never be dark enough.  How childish it had been of me to dread the long, dreamless sleep, the eternity of silence and gloom!  Death was kind, for in suppressing life it put an end to suffering.  Oh, to sleep like the stones, to be no more!