The ceaseless labour of your life is to build the house of death.
Know one knows whether death, which people fear to be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good.
Die? I should say not, dear fellow. No Barrymore would allow such a conventional thing to happen to him.
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains, jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your gawd like a soldier.
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
You will die but the carbon will not; its career does not end with you. It will return to the soil, and there a plant may take it up again in time, sending it once more on a cycle of plant and animal life.
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