Vladimir Nabokov. Navidad
"He never said anything to me...." Sleptsov tried to remember, rubbing his forehead with his palm.
On the last page there was an ink drawing: the hind view of an elephant—two thick pillars, the corners of two ears, and a tiny tail.
Sleptsov got up. He shook his head, restraining yet another onrush of hideous sobs.
"I-can't-bear-it-any-longer," he drawled between groans, repeating even more slowly, "I—can't—bear—it—any—longer...."
"It's Christmas tomorrow," came the abrupt reminder, "and I'm going to die. Of course. It's so simple. This very night..."