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Harry returns more and more frequently to his memories. He reflects on the time he spent alone in Constantinople as a young man, after having quarreled with his wife. He drank and had sex with prostitutes in an attempt to numb his heartbreak, and mailed a letter to his first love, telling her that he still loved her. On the way to Anatolia the next day, Harry remembers the trauma of witnessing the massacre of Greek soldiers by the Turks. Upon returning to Paris, Harry reconciled with his wife. However, his old flame soon responded to his letter, and when his current wife discovered it, the disintegration of their marriage began. Harry realizes that he has not yet written about his marriages with the women he truly loved, and that, because of the gangrene, he never will.
In the present, Harry tells his wife that he wants to write and insists that he will die tonight. She refuses to accept that his death is actually a possibility, despite the worsening condition of Harry’s infection. Once again, Harry reflects on what a nice, pleasant person she is. Yet, when he looks at her, he feels the presence of death. Harry decides that he isn’t going to quarrel with his wife anymore. He wants to die without having ruined their relationship like he ruined his past relationships. Harry wants to write, but he’s too weak; his chance to write something meaningful before he dies is slipping away. He believes that he only needs to write one good paragraph, and that it would encapsulate everything he wants to say.
Harry remembers a hunting cabin that belonged to his grandfather, which eventually burned down. He also remembers staying in a hotel in Triberg, Germany after World War I. During the season he lived at the hotel, everyone was merry, but the following season saw the hotel hit hard by inflation, and the owner committed suicide. Harry then returns to his happiest years in Paris, when he lived in a poverty-stricken but community-oriented neighborhood. It was there that he was most prolific and invigorated. He realizes now that he never wrote about Paris, nor so many other important things. He recalls a ranch on which he had worked, which employed an intellectually disabled chore boy, who was tasked with keeping the hay safe from thieves during a period when the other workers were gone. The boy shot and killed a man who had threatened to steal the feed. Harry had to manipulate the boy into hauling the corpse down the mountain into the nearest town, where Harry then turned the unsuspecting boy in to the police.
Back in Africa, Harry realizes that, should he live, he’ll never write about his wife. Harry believes that the rich are inherently dull, but he remembers a friend of his, Julian, who thought that the wealthy were a “special glamorous race.” Harry claims that Julian was wrecked when he discovered this to be untrue. Harry believes that he is immune to being wrecked, as he has taught himself not to care—even death now has no emotional power over him. The only thing that concerned him about death was the pain, but his wound no longer hurts. In his final memory, Harry recalls how a fellow soldier, Williamson, was disemboweled by a stick bomb during WWI. The agony was so intense that Williamson begged his peers to kill him. Harry gave Williamson all the morphine tablets he had been saving for himself, because, despite the pain, Williamson remained conscious, continuing to beg for death.
