Dear Frau N., 11July1944
What happens after death is so unspeakably glorious that our imagination and our feelings do not suffice to form even an approximate conception of it.
A few days before my sister died her face ware an expression of such inhuman sublimity that I was profoundly frightened.
A child, too, enters into this sublimity, and there detaches himself from this world and his manifold individuations more quickly than the aged.
So easily does he become what you also are that he apparently vanishes.
Sooner or later all the dead become what we also are.
But in this reality we know little or nothing about that mode of being, and what shall we still know of this earth after death?
The dissolution of our time-bound form in eternity brings no loss of meaning. Rather does the little finger know itself a member of the hand.