And when, over an eight-hour period, repeatedly clouding the polished slab of diorite with my breath, I provided an inscription such as Here rests in God my dear Husband — new line — Our dear Father, Brother, and Uncle — new line — Joseph Esser — new line — b. 3.4.1885 d. 22.6.1946 — new line —  Death is the Gateway to Life — then, reading over this text, I felt a sort of ersatz joy, that is, was pleasantly happy, and repeatedly thanked Joseph Esser, dead at the age of sixty-one, and the small green clouds of diorite raised by my lettering point as I bestowed particular attention on the five O s in Esser’s epitaph; and so I did well with the letter O, for which Oskar felt a special affection, producing it with a fine regularity and endlessness, though it was always somewhat too large.