Epigraphs serve as pow­er­ful gate­ways into the themes and moods of a work, and in Epi­graph, Mar­tyr!, the author employs a mem­o­rable line from Clarice Lispec­tor to open the sto­ry with a deep reflec­tion on mor­tal­i­ty. The line “My God, I just remem­bered that we die” imme­di­ate­ly estab­lish­es an intro­spec­tive, somber tone, guid­ing read­ers into an exis­ten­tial con­tem­pla­tion of life’s tran­sient nature. The stark­ness of this statement—shocking in its simplicity—pushes the read­er to pause and reflect on their own mor­tal­i­ty. The feel­ing of sud­den real­iza­tion shared by the nar­ra­tor serves as an awak­en­ing, where a fleet­ing, almost dis­mis­sive thought leads to a pro­found shift in aware­ness. It brings to light the uncom­fort­able real­i­ty that life is frag­ile, and time is always run­ning out. Through this brief but impact­ful real­iza­tion, the epi­graph high­lights a cen­tral theme of the nov­el: life’s imper­ma­nence and the inevitabil­i­ty of death.

Fol­low­ing this stark acknowl­edg­ment of death, the next phrase, “But—but me too?!”, pro­vides a per­son­al, almost star­tled reac­tion from the nar­ra­tor. This moment of real­iza­tion is piv­otal, as it trans­forms the med­i­ta­tion on mor­tal­i­ty from a pas­sive reflec­tion into a deeply per­son­al con­fronta­tion with the uni­ver­sal­i­ty of death. The nar­ra­tor is no longer sim­ply con­tem­plat­ing death in the abstract but is now acknowl­edg­ing their own place with­in this inevitable cycle. By express­ing this sud­den aware­ness that they, too, are vul­ner­a­ble to death, the nar­ra­tor invites the read­er into their expe­ri­ence, mak­ing the exis­ten­tial ques­tion a col­lec­tive one. It becomes clear that while death may seem like some­thing dis­tant or inevitable for oth­ers, it is some­thing that touch­es every­one, regard­less of cir­cum­stance. This uni­ver­sal recog­ni­tion of mor­tal­i­ty con­nects the nar­ra­tor with oth­ers and draws the read­er into an explo­ration of what it means to live in a world where death is always just around the cor­ner.

In an unex­pect­ed turn, the men­tion of “straw­ber­ry sea­son” intro­duces a light­heart­ed, almost whim­si­cal note amidst the heav­i­ness of the ear­li­er reflec­tions. Straw­ber­ries, a fleet­ing sea­son­al fruit, serve as a metaphor for life’s tran­sient plea­sures and moments of joy. This imagery offers a con­trast to the stark­ness of the ear­li­er con­tem­pla­tion of death, remind­ing read­ers that while life is short and often filled with pain, there are still small, beau­ti­ful things to savor. The epi­graph sub­tly sug­gests that these fleet­ing joys—whether it’s a sweet straw­ber­ry, a pass­ing moment of hap­pi­ness, or a fleet­ing connection—are part of what makes life worth liv­ing, even amidst its inevitable end. This shift in tone high­lights the del­i­cate bal­ance between despair and hope, between acknowl­edg­ing the harsh real­i­ties of life and embrac­ing the fleet­ing plea­sures that arise with­in it. It’s an invi­ta­tion to find mean­ing in the small moments, even as the larg­er nar­ra­tive of life and death looms over every­thing.

The jux­ta­po­si­tion of these con­trast­ing ideas in the epigraph—the heavy, intro­spec­tive med­i­ta­tion on death paired with the fleet­ing sweet­ness of straw­ber­ry season—mirrors the larg­er themes of the nov­el. It sug­gests that while life is frag­ile and death is cer­tain, it is in the tran­sient joys and moments of con­nec­tion that the essence of liv­ing is found. The epi­graph serves as a gen­tle reminder that despite the weight of mor­tal­i­ty, there are moments worth cher­ish­ing, moments that define the qual­i­ty of our exis­tence. These fleet­ing plea­sures, much like straw­ber­ries, may be brief, but they hold val­ue in their imper­ma­nence. As the nar­ra­tive unfolds, the read­er is encour­aged to embrace the com­plex­i­ty of life: to acknowl­edge death as an inevitable real­i­ty while savor­ing the beau­ty that exists in the moments between life’s many tran­si­tions. Through this med­i­ta­tion on exis­tence, the epi­graph invites read­ers to reflect on their own lives, push­ing them to engage with the present, not in fear of the future, but in appre­ci­a­tion of the fleet­ing nature of the now.