The idea that one can report on one’s own death is paradoxical, if not preposterous. As Epicurus wrote in his Letter to Menoeceus, “When we exist, death is not; and when death exists, we are not.” To which Woody Allen added the footnote, “I don’t mind dying . . . as long as I . . . . Continue Reading »
At first, I didn’t notice the sirens. As a medical doctor, I’d grown used to electronic distress calls. Besides, I live in New York City. Ambulance whines and taxi horns are the treble and tenor lines of urban music. My eight-year-old pointed them out. “Coronavirus,” she said, as an . . . . Continue Reading »
Human mortality has always fascinated the greatest creative minds—from Homer declaiming on the slayings of Patroclus and Hector, to Sigmund Freud speculating on death drives. Roger Scruton even locates the significance of artistic endeavor in the fact that we understand our existence to be . . . . Continue Reading »
Social distancing rules have complicated the Rites of Christian Burial and the customary human interactions that accompany the death of a loved one. Continue Reading »
In the obits, ballplayers still finish first,their August exploits no one quite remembersrestored to life: the diving stop unrehearsedamid the routine plays of life’s surrender. But beneath our unnamed pastoral hero,I’ll find her, too, Ms. Forbes-Under-Thirtywho built a company up from zero,ran . . . . Continue Reading »