“Most things never happen: this one will”. Poets write more frequently about death than any other subject, except possibly love. That is not surprising. Death is a colossal subject – “nothing more terrible, nothing more true”. Perhaps man’s most remarkable talent is for ignoring death and coming to terms with it takes up a good deal of man’s time. Probably the chief way is in the form of religion in which the only miracle worth talking about is immortality. But there is also literature. However, very often literature does not give us the hard truth about death. We are left feeling that somehow it is all right. Either because death isn’t going to happen (“one short sleep, we wake eternally”). Or, if it does happen, it is something we need not worry about (“so long as we exist, death is not with us, but when death comes, then we do not exist”). Or, if it does happen, it is really rather nice and comfortable (“in a sleep deeper and calmer than that of infancy, wrapped in the finest and softest dust”). Or, finally, life would be very dull without death (“it is immeasurably heightened”).
