MORS

En samling af gammelt skrammel, d.v.s. tekster der er relevante i anden lokal sammenhæng eller har særlig betydning for undertegnede. Perspektivet er decideret morbidt, men døden kommer jo også til selv den smukkeste og mest velvoksne kæmpe, og med Akilleus ord: Hvortil den jammer og klage?

Indtil videre omfatter det følgende.

Intro

• Lucius Shepard (1943-2014)
  • • The Ends of the Earth

Stoicismen

• Seneca (4 BC - 65 AD)
• • • Ad Lucilium Epistolae Morales • (Moral Letters to Lucilius)
• • • De Brevitate Vitae • (On the Shortness of Life)
• Epicurus (241-270)
• • • Letter to Menoeceus
• • • Principal Doctrines
• Lucretius (99-55 BC)
• • • De Rerum Natura

Døden som underholdning

• Thomas De Quincey (1785-1859)
• • • On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts
• • • Modern Superstition
• Deaths in the Iliad (c. 670-660 BC)

Religion

• Lactantius (240-320)
• • • De Mortibus Persecutotum • (Of the Manner in Which the Persecutors Died)
• Aurelius Augustinus Hipponensis (354-430)
• • • City of God

Essays

• Montaigne (1533-1592)
• • • That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die
• • • Of Conscience
• • • That Men Are not to Judge of Our Happiness till after Death
• • • Cowardice is the Mother of Cruelty
• Francis Bacon (1561-1626)
• • • Of Death

Digtning

• Shakey Bill (1564-1616)
• Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
• • • The Ballad of Reading Gaol
• Diverse
• • • Karl Gjellerup • Herman Bang • Sophus Michaëlis • Christian Richardt • Johs. Ewald
• • • Walt Whitman • W. B. Yeats • Henry Wadsworth Longfellow • Dylan Thomas
• • • Robert Louis Stevenson • William Wordsworth • Emily Dickinson • Alfred Tennyson

Filosofi

• Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
• • • Ved en Grav

Litteratur

• Ambrose Bierce (1842-1913)
• • • The Parenticide Club
• • • An Occurrance at Owl Creek Bridge
• • • Death Penalty
• • • Taking Oneself Off
• • • Immortality
• • • Religion

Diverse

• Citater

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Lucius Shepard

Der er næppe nogen forfatter fra det sidste århundrede, som behersker og benytter transformationen som litterært fænomen i samme udstrækning som Lucius Shepard — i den forstand er Lucius Shepard vel det nærmeste man kommer på at finde hvad der måtte være David Cronenbergs litterære tvilling — og hvad er mere nærliggende, end at indlede denne samling af vinkler på døden — det store uforståelige, det uendelige fravær, den endelige transformation, intethedens triumf — med et blik på døden set ude- og ikke mindst oppefra.

Den bliver ikke mere forståelig eller bare acceptabel af den grund og bestemt ikke mindre skræmmende, så selv om en del af teksterne i det følgende går i stik modsatte retning og at det nok vil passe de fleste mennesker ret godt, så er det svært ikke at fascineres over følgende demonstration af intelligence without sentiment, af hatred without passion. Her sættes mennesket på sin plads hinsides humanismens omklamrende sentimentalitet og det bliver indlysende klart, at "the weak strains of life are barely a music, and the walls that hold back death are tissue-thin". Humanismens rettighedskrævende og selvtilstrækkelig individ modtager et — vil nogen måske mene — tiltrængt wake-up call: der er noget der er større end dig og dine retttigheder, selv retten til liv, slutter her. I den forstand kan selv døden opfattes opfattes som noget ultimativt livsbekræftende. Uddrag af Lucius Shepards

The Ends of the Earth

The house was a glowing patch in the midst of a toiling darkness and was made of sapling poles and thatch; orange light striped the gaps between the poles and leaked from beneath the door. I called to the defeated. The angry conversation within was broken off, but no one came out. Perhaps, I thought, he had mistaken my call for an element of the storm. I called again, a demanding scream that out-voiced the thunder. Still he remained within. This was intolerable! Now I would be forced to instruct him. I ripped aside the poles at the front of the house, creating a gaping hole through which I saw two figures shrinking back against the rear wall. I held out my hand in invitation, but as the alternate collapsed to the floor, the defeated went scuttling about like a frightened crab, running into the table, the chairs. Disgusted, I reached in and picked him up. I lifted him high, looked into his terrified face. He struggled, prying at my claws, kicking, squealing his fear.

"Why do you struggle?" I asked. "Your life is an exhausted breath, the failure of an enervated creation. You are food with a flicker of intelligence. True power is beyond you, and the knowledge of pain is your most refined sensibility." Of course he did not understand: my speech must have seemed to him like a tide roaring out from a cave. But to illustrate the point I traced a line of blood across his nibs, being careful not to cut too deeply. "Your ideas are all wrong," I told him. "Your concept of beauty a gross mutation; your insipid notions of good and evil an insult to their fathering principles." Once again I made him bleed, tracing the second line of instruction, slitting the skin of his stomach with such precision that it parted in neat flaps, yet the sac within was left intact. "Evil is as impersonal as mathematics. That its agencies derive pleasure from carrying out its charge is meaningless. Its trappings, its gaud and hellish forms, are nuance, not essence. Evil is the pure function of the universe, the machine of stars and darkness that carries us everywhere." At the third line I saw in his face the first light of understanding, and in his shrieks I detected a music that reflected the incisiveness of my as-yet-incomplete design. His eyes were distended, bloody spittle clung to his lips and beard, and there was a new eagerness in his expression; he would—had he been able to muster coherent thought—have interpreted this eagerness as a lust for death, yet I doubted he would be aware that to feel such a lust was the signature of a profound lesson learned. I thought, however, that once we returned to the desert, once I had time to complete the design, our lessons would go more quickly. I traced a fourth line. His body spasmed, flopping bonelessly, but he did not lose consciousness, and I admired his stamina, envied him the small purity of his purpose. The bond that held me in that place was weakening, and I grasped him more tightly, squeezing a trickle of darkness from his mouth. "You and I," I said, slicing the skin over his breastbone, "are gears of the machine. Together we interlock and turn, causing an increment of movement, a miniscule resolution of potential." With the barest flick I laid open one of his cheeks, and he responded with a high quavering wail that went on and on as if I had opened a valve inside him, released some pressure that issued forth with a celebratory keening. Beneath the wash of blood I had a glimpse of white. "I can see to your bone," I said. "The stalk of your being. I am going to pare you down to your essential things, both of flesh and knowledge. And when we return to the temples, you will have clear sight of them, of their meaning. They, too, are part of the machine." His head lolled back; his mouth went slack, and his eyes—they appeared to have gone dark—rolled up to fix on mine. It was as if he had decided to take his ease and bleed and study his tormentor, insulated from pain and fear. Perhaps he thought the worst was over. I laughed at that, and the storm of my laughter merged with the wind and all the tearing night, making him stiffen. I bent my head close to him, breathed a black breath to keep him calm during the transition, and whispered, "Soon you will know everything."

That is a mere approximation of what I remember, an overformal and inadequate rendering of an experience that seems with the passage of time to grow ever more untranslatable. Trapped by the limitations of language, I can only hint at the sense of alienness that had pervaded me, at the compulsions of the thing I believed I had become. I woke on the beach before dawn not far from Konwicki’s house, and I thought that after the possession — or the transformation, or whatever it had been — had ended, in the resultant delirium I must have wandered down from the hillside and passed out. No other possibility offered itself. My muscles still ached from the experience, and my memories were powerful and individual and sickening. I remembered how it felt to have the strength to tear iron like rotten cloth; I remembered a cold disdain for a world I now embraced in gratitude and relief; I remembered the sight of a black hand wicked with curved talons closing around Konwicki and lifting him high; I remembered intelligence without sentiment, hatred without passion; I remembered a thousand wars of the spirit that I had never fought; I remembered killing a hundred brothers for the right to survive, I remembered a silence that caused pain; I remembered thoughts like knives, a wind like religion, a brilliance like fear, I remembered things for which I had no words. Things that made me tremble.

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Lucius Shepard: The Ends of The Earth. In: The Ends of the Earth. 1993. p 45-47

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Lucretius

De Rerum Natura Book III v. 830-1094 - Folly of the Fear of Death

Therefore if you should chance to hear some man
Pitying his own lot, that after death
Either his body must decay in the earth,
Or be consumed by flames or jaws of beasts,
Then may you know that his words ring not true,
That in his heart there lurks some secret sting, ➜

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Seneca

Håndteringen af døden, både ens egen og andres, er et stort og vægtigt tema, som burde optage mennesker langt mere end det tilsyneladende gør — eller også er handler det simpelthen om uformåenhed, når angsten, frygten eller ligefrem panikken over døden indtræder. Seneca skrev brevene til Lucilius i en sen alder, og man kan ikke lade være med at tænke, at frygten for døden hos mange mennesker synes at aftage med alderen; jo tætter den kommer på, jo mindre skræmmende bliver den. Hvis det er sandt, er det jo ikke den store kunst stoisk at sætte døden i en krog og betragte den desinteresseret på forsvarlig afstand. Man kommer ikke udenom Seneca, hvis man vil forholde sig til døden. Her i et lille relevant udvalg af de 122 Epistolae og hans tekst om Livets Korthed.

Ad Lucilium Epistolae Morales (Moral letters to Lucilius)

"Seneca's works provide a refreshing reminder in our time of man's uniquely human characteristics; namely, his free will and his reason. He seems to point up a failure on the part of so many to appreciate the control they have over their destiny. A recurrent theme presented by emotionally disturbed individuals, and one that psychotherapy attempts to correct, is the attitude or feeling that forces outside of the person are in control of his life and are responsible for what becomes of him. Seneca allows us to see that as a man chooses a cause — which for him was virtue, or moral perfection — he becomes that cause. In choosing the good over evil, he becomes the good, and in the process transcends his being. Seneca pointed clearly to the value of examining human suffering in order not only to rise above it and find tranquility but, more importantly, to find there the meaning for an individual's existence."(1) ➜

DE BREVITATE VITAE (On the Shortness of Life)

"The majority of mortals, [...] complain bitterly of the spitefulness of Nature, because we are born for a brief span of life, because even this space that has been granted to us rushes by so speedily and so swiftly that all save a very few find life at an end just when they are getting ready to live. Nor is it merely the common herd and the unthinking crowd that bemoan what is, as men deem it, an universal ill; the same feeling has called forth complaint also from men who were famous. It was this that made the greatest of physicians exclaim that "life is short, art is long;" it was this that led Aristotle, while expostulating with Nature, to enter an indictment most unbecoming to a wise man—that, in point of age, she has shown such favour to animals that they drag out five or ten lifetimes, but that a much shorter limit is fixed for man, though he is born for so many and such great achievements. It is not that we have a short space of time, but that we waste much of it. Life is long enough, and it has been given in sufficiently generous measure to allow the accomplishment of the very greatest things if the whole of it is well invested. But when it is squandered in luxury and carelessness, when it is devoted to no good end, forced at last by the ultimate necessity we perceive that it has passed away before we were aware that it was passing ..." ➜

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LACTANTIUS

Der er til gengæld ikke meget sjov over Lactantius. Det er der oftest ikke blandt de mere gudsfrygtige og fromme, og i særlig grad ikke, når de skal have afløb for deres skadefryd, når de skal pege fingre og gudsfrygtigt og fromt ønske at alle de, der ikke makker ret og retter ind, må få deres velfortjente straf. Her Tertullian:

"Hvilket syn skal vække min undren, min latter, min glæde og jubel? Når jeg ser alle disse konger, disse store konger, som vi fik at vide blev budt velkommen i himlen sammen med Jupiter og dem, der fortalte om deres opstigning, nu stønnende i mørkets dyb! Og de embedsmænd, der forfulgte Jesu navn, smeltende i mere voldsomme flammer end dem, de tændte i deres raseri mod de kristne! Og de vise, filosofferne, blussende sammen med deres disciple, mens de rødmer over, at de lærte dem, at Gud intet bekymrer sig om, at mennesket slet ikke har nogen sjæl, eller at den sjæl, de har, aldrig vender tilbage til deres tidligere kroppe! Og så digterne, skælvende foran domsædet, ikke Rhadamanthus’, ikke Minos’, men Kristi, som de aldrig forventede at møde! Derefter de tragiske skuespillere, mere vokale i deres egen tragedie; og skuespillerne, set som mere smidige i ilden; og vognstyreren, helt rød i flammehjulet; og til sidst at betragte atleterne, ikke i deres gymnastiksale, men kastet i ilden — medmindre jeg, selv da, ikke ville ønske at se dem, i min lyst snarere til at rette et umætteligt blik på dem, som udøste deres vrede og raseri på Herren."

De gudsfrygtige bliver ikke mindre nidkære og ondskabsfulde når det gælder beskrivelserne af de, der allerede har fået deres "velfortjente" straf. Ubehageligt detaljerede beskrivelser er der nok af hos Lactantius, men den underliggende skadefryd vækker ikke sympati. Interessant? Det er det helt sikkert. Underholdende? Javist også det. Men morsomt er det ikke, alvoren udelukker enhver form for humor eller vid. Der er for meget på spil, både teologisk, moralsk og helt sikkert også personligt hos forfatteren.

DE MORTIBUS PERSECUTORUM • (Of the Manner in Which the Persecutors Died)

"They who insulted over the Divinity, lie low; they who cast down the holy temple, are fallen with more tremendous ruin; and the tormentors of just men have poured out their guilty souls amidst plagues inflicted by Heaven, and amidst deserved tortures. For God delayed to punish them, that, by great and marvellous examples, He might teach posterity that He alone is God, and that with fit vengeance He executes judgment on the proud, the impious, and the persecutors. Of the end of those men I have thought good to publish a narrative, that all who are afar off, and all who shall arise hereafter, may learn how the Almighty manifested His power and sovereign greatness in rooting out and utterly destroying the enemies of His name. And this will become evident, when I relate who were the persecutors of the Church from the time of its first constitution, and what were the punishments by which the divine Judge, in His severity, took vengeance on them." ➜

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Epicurus

Letter to Menoeceus

"But the many at one moment shun death as the greatest of evils, at another yearn for it as a respite from the evils in life. But the wise man neither seeks to escape life nor fears the cessation of life, for neither does life offend him nor does the absence of life seem to be any evil." ➜

Principal Doctrines

"Death is nothing to us; for the body, when it has been resolved into its elements, has no feeling, and that which has no feeling is nothing to us." ➜

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Aurelius Augustinus Hipponensis

Wikipedia: "On the City of God Against the Pagans (Latin: De civitate Dei contra paganos), often called The City of God, is a book of Christian philosophy written in Latin by Augustine of Hippo in the early 5th century AD. Augustine wrote the book to refute allegations that Christianity initiated the decline of Rome and is considered one of his seminal works, standing alongside the Confessions, the Enchiridion, On Christian Doctrine, and On the Trinity. As a work of one of the most influential Church Fathers, The City of God is a cornerstone of Western thought, expounding on many questions of theology, such as the suffering of the righteous, the existence of evil, the conflict between free will and divine omniscience, and the doctrine of original sin."

Uddrag om Om dødsstraf, livets afslutning og selvmord. ➜

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Montaigne

THAT TO STUDY PHILOSOPY IS TO LEARN TO DIE

"Cicero says [...] “that to study philosophy is nothing but to prepare one’s self to die.” The reason of which is, because study and contemplation do in some sort withdraw from us our soul, and employ it separately from the body, which is a kind of apprenticeship and a resemblance of death; or, else, because all the wisdom and reasoning in the world do in the end conclude in this point, to teach us not to fear to die ..." ➜

OF CONSCIENCE

"Pain will make even the innocent lie ...” ➜

THAT MEN ARE NOT TO JUDGE OF OUR HAPPINESS TILL AFTER DEATH.

"The very children know the story of King Croesus to this purpose, who being taken prisoner by Cyrus, and by him condemned to die, as he was going to execution cried out, “O Solon, Solon!” which being presently reported to Cyrus, and he sending to inquire of him what it meant, Croesus gave him to understand that he now found the teaching Solon had formerly given him true to his cost; which was, “That men, however fortune may smile upon them, could never be said to be happy till they had been seen to pass over the last day of their lives,” by reason of the uncertainty and mutability of human things, which, upon very light and trivial occasions, are subject to be totally changed into a quite contrary condition ..." ➜

COWARDICE THE MOTHER OF CRUELTY

"I have often heard it said that cowardice is the mother of cruelty; and I have found by experience that malicious and inhuman animosity and fierceness are usually accompanied with feminine weakness." ➜

Of judging of the death of another

"When we judge of another's assurance in death, which, without doubt, is the most remarkable action of human life, we are to take heed of one thing, which is that men very hardly believe themselves to have arrived to that period. Few men come to die in the opinion that it is their latest hour; and there is nothing wherein the flattery of hope more deludes us; It never ceases to whisper in our ears, "Others have been much sicker without dying; your condition is not so desperate as 'tis thought; and, at the worst, God has done other miracles." ➜

(Translated by Charles Cotton)

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Francis Bacon

Of Death (1625)

"Men fear death, as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other. Certainly, the contemplation of death, as the wages of sin and passage to another world, is holy and religious; but the fear of it, as a tribute due unto nature, is weak." ➜

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Shakey Bill

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. (1)

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come. (1)

To be or not to be—that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep—
No more—and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep—
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. (1)

Is wretchedness deprived that benefit
To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort
When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage
And frustrate his proud will. (1)

       Where art thou, Death?
Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen (1)

Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilling liquor drink thou off;
When presently through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humor; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease.
No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest.
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes, thy eyes’ windows fall
Like death when he shuts up the day of life.
Each part, deprived of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death (1)

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Thomas De Quincey

Der er mange forskellige tilgange til døden, men det bliver næppe festligere end De Quinceys betragtninger over mordet som kunstart, med mindre man vender sig mod visse perifære og let tilgængelige nyere filmgenrer, som desværre ofte er lidt for let tilgængelige, men vid er heller ikke ligefrem på mode, hvilket kan hænge sammen med at det i den grad er intelligence without sentiment og at det dermed kolliderer voldsomt med tidens udtalte sentimentalitet. Men hvis nogensinde noget litterært værk har levet op til betegnelsen at være for feinschmeckere, så er det De Quinceys On Murder.

On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts

"The paper on "Murder as one of the Fine Arts" seemed to exact from me some account of Williams, the dreadful London murderer of the last generation; not only because the amateurs had so much insisted on his merit as the supreme of artists for grandeur of design and breadth of style; and because, apart from this momentary connection with my paper, the man himself merited a record for his matchless audacity, combined with so much of snaky subtlety, and even insinuating amiableness in his demeanour-but also because, apart from the man himself, the works of the man (those two of them especially which so profoundly impressed the nation in 1812) were in themselves, for dramatic effect, the most impressive on record ... "

On Murder er egentlig tre skrifter: On Murder Considered as one of the Fine Arts (1827), Supplementary Paper on Murder considered as One of the Fine Arts (1839) og Postscript (1854).
Dertil er er der tidlige lille skrift On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth (1823), det posthumt udgivne Murder as a Fine Art (Some Notes for a New Paper) (?) og den gotiske fiktion The Avenger (1838) ➜

Modern Superstition

"It is said continually — that the age of miracles is past. We deny that it is so in any sense which implies this age to differ from all other generations of man except one. It is neither past, nor ought we to wish it past. Superstition is no vice in the constitution of man ..." ➜

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Kierkegaard

Ved en Grav

"En Hedning har allerede sagt, at Døden skal man ikke frygte, »thi naar den er, er jeg ikke, og naar jeg er, er den ikke.« Dette er Spøgen, hvormed den listige Betragter stiller sig selv udenfor; men selv om Betragtningen brugte Rædselens Billeder for at skildre Døden, forfærdede en syg Indbildning, det er dog kun Spøg, hvis han blot tænker Døden, ikke sig selv i Døden, hvis han tænker den som Slægtens Vilkaar, men ikke som sit. Spøgen er, at hiin ubøielige Magt ligesom ikke kan faae Ram paa sit Bytte, at der er en Modsigelse, at Døden ligesom narrer sig selv. Thi Sorgen, hvis Du dermed vil sammenligne Døden, og hvis Du vil kalde den en Bueskytte som Døden er det: Sorgen rammer ikke feil, thi den rammer den Levende, og naar den har rammet ham, saa først begynder Sorgen: men naar Dødens Piil har rammet, saa er det jo forbi." ➜

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Ambrose Bierce

Hvis kynismen er humorens alt for erfarne storebror, så er Ambrose Bierce den bror du aldrig fik, men som du altid drømte om. Her er både nogle af hans mere kendte historier, såvel som nogle lidt mere ukendte essays om både dødsstraf, selvmord og udødelighed.

The Parenticide Club

"Having murdered my mother under circumstances of singular atrocity, I was arrested and put upon my trial, which lasted seven years. In charging the jury, the judge of the Court of Acquittal remarked that it was one of the most ghastly crimes that he had ever been called upon to explain away ..." ➜

An Occurrance at Owl Creek Bridge

"A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners ..." ➜

Death Penalty

"FOR thousands of years—doubtless for hundreds of thousands—an incessant civil war has been going on in every country that has even a rudimentary civilization, and the prospect of peace is no brighter to-day than it was at the beginning of hostilities. This war, with its dreadful mortality and suffering, loses none of its violence in times of peace; indeed, a condition of national tranquillity appears to be most favorable to its relentless prosecution: when the people are not fighting foreigners they have more time for fighting one another. This never-ending internal strife is between the law-breaking and the law-abiding classes. The latter is the larger force—at least it is the stronger and is constantly victorious, yet never takes the full benefit of its victory. The commander of an army who should so neglect his opportunities would be recalled in disgrace, for it is a rule of warfare to take the utmost possible advantage of success." "“An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” say the opponents of the death penalty, “is not justice; it is revenge and unworthy of a Christian civilization.” It is exact justice: nobody can think of anything more accurately just than such punishments would be, whatever the motive in awarding them. Unfortunately such a system is not practicable, but he who denies its justice must deny also the justice of a bushel of corn for a bushel of corn, a dollar for a dollar, service for service. We can not undertake by such clumsy means as laws and courts to do to the criminal exactly what he has done to his victim, but to demand a life for a life is simple, practicable, expedient and (therefore) right ..." ➜

Taking Oneself Off

"The notion that we have not the right to take our own lives comes of our consciousness that we have not the courage. It is the plea of the coward—his excuse for continuing to live when he has nothing to live for—or his provision against such a time in the future. If he were not egotist as well as coward he would need no excuse. To one who does not regard himself as the center of creation and his sorrows as throes of the universe, life, if not worth living, is also not worth leaving. The ancient philosopher who was asked why he did not die if, as he taught, life was no better than death, replied: “Because death is no better than life.” We do not know that either proposition is true, but the matter is not worth considering, for both states are supportable—life despite its pleasures and death despite its repose ..." ➜

Immortality

"THE desire for life everlasting has commonly been affirmed to be universal—at least that is the view taken by those unacquainted with Oriental faiths and with Oriental character. Those of us whose knowledge is a trifle wider are not prepared to say that the desire is universal or even general ..." ➜

Religion

"This is my ultimate and determining test of right—"What, in the circumstances, would Christ have done?"—the Christ of the New Testament, not the Christ of the commentators, theologians, priests and parsons. The test is perhaps not infallible, but it is exceedingly simple and gives as good practical results as any. I am not a Christian, but so far as I know, the best and truest and sweetest character in literature, is next to Buddha, Jesus Christ. He taught nothing new in goodness, for all goodness was ages old before he came; but with an almost infallible intuition he applied to life and conduct the entire law of righteousness. He was a lightning moral calculator: to his luminous intelligence the statement of the problem carried the solution—he could not hesitate, he seldom erred. That upon his deeds and words was founded a religion which in a debased form persists and even spreads to this day is mere attestation of his marvelous gift: adoration is a primitive mode of recognition. It seems a pity that this wonderful man had not a longer life under more complex conditions ..." ➜

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Oscar Wilde

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

"He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed." ➜

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Deaths in the Iliad

Sjov med meningsløs vold kunne være kategorien for følgende. — Deaths in the Iliad, et igangværende projekt, et forsøg på at sammensamle forekomsten af beskrivelsen af voldelig, spektakulær og grafisk udpenslet død i Iliaden og lade sig underholde af hvad andre måtte lide engang for længe siden. Forargeligt? Næppe, de døde erindrer ikke.

Døe da du, min Ven! hvi vil du dig vaande saa heftig?
Død er jo ogsaa Patroklos, en boldere Helt end Lykaon;
Seer du ei selv, hvad Kæmpe jeg er, hvor høi og hvor fager,
Søn af den ædleste Helt, en udødelig Viv er min Moder,
Dog, selv mig skal Døden forvist og den mægtige Skjebne
Ramme, hvad enten det skeer ved Grye, ved Qvæld eller Middag.
Naar i den blodige Færd en Mand berøver mig Livet,
Enten med Piil fra Streng, eller ogsaa med Spyd han mig træffer. (1)

Kunde vi begge, min Ven! hvis nu fra Strid vi os unddrog,
Fries for Døden bestandig, og vorde evindelig unge,
Hverken da lysted mig selv blandt de forreste Kæmper at stride,
Heller ei raaded jeg dig at friste den hædrende Kampgang;
Dog da i tusinde Tal nu Dødsgudinder os true,
Dem ingen dødelig Mand formaaer at flye eller undgaae,
Frem da! hvad enten saa vi eller Troerne Hæder skal vinde! (2)

Så derfor ➜

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DIVERSE

DANSKE DIGTE

Christian Richardt: Herodes Død
Karl Gjellerup: Catos Død
Sophus Michaëlis: Til en Død
Herman Bang: Død, du, som altid —
Johannes Ewald: Død og Dom ➜

Walt Whitman

O Captain! My Captain!

By Walt Whitman more Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
      But O heart! heart! heart!
        O the bleeding drops of red,
          Where on the deck my Captain lies,
            Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
      Here Captain! dear father!
        This arm beneath your head!
          It is some dream that on the deck,
            You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
      Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
        But I with mournful tread,
          Walk the deck my Captain lies,
            Fallen cold and dead.

W. B. Yeats

Death

NOR dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all; Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone --
Man has created death. (1)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Cross Of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
  A gentle face — the face of one long dead —
  Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
  The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
  Never through martyrdom of fire was led
  To its repose; nor can in books be read
  The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
  That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
  Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
  These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
  And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

Afternoon In February

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;

While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;

Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashore;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Through they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

Robert Louis Stevenson

Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky,
       Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
       And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
       Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
       And the hunter home from the hill.

William Wordsworth

We Are Seven

———A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

Emily Dickinson

Because I Could Not Stop For Death

Because I could not stop for Death —
He kindly stopped for me —
The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
And Immortality.

We slowly drove — He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility —

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess — in the Ring —
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain —
We passed the Setting Sun —

Or rather — He passed Us —
The Dews drew quivering and Chill —
For only Gossamer, my Gown —
My Tippet — only Tulle —

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground —
The Roof was scarcely visible —
The Cornice – in the Ground —

Since then — 'tis Centuries — and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity —

Alfred Tennyson

A Farewell

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

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Citater

The emotion to Kill

"People talk of criminals as though they were utterly different from “good” people; as though specially created in order that a large class of the community should have the pleasure of hating them. Those who enjoy the emotion of hating are much like the groups who sate their thirst for blood by hunting and hounding to death helpless animals as an outlet for their emotions. Property crimes, as I have stated before, come from the desire to get something, and the inhibition against getting it except in certain ways. The contrary ways are supposed to be evil because they have been forbidden by law, and all that are not forbidden are supposed to be honorable. Is the desire to get things in spite of all odds confined to criminals? Every instinct that is found in any man is in all men. The strength of the emotion may not be so overpowering, the barriers against possession not so insurmountable, the urge to accomplish the desire less keen. With some, inhibitions and urges may be neutralized by other tendencies. But with every being the primal emotions are there. All men have an emotion to kill; when they strongly dislike some one they involuntarily wish he was dead. I have never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction."
- Clarence Darrow: The story of my life. New York 1996 (1932). p. 86

Alting har en tid.

Alt har sin Stund og hver en Ting under Himmelen sin Tid:
Tid til at fødes og Tid til at dø, Tid til at plante og Tid til at rydde,
Tid til at dræbe og Tid til at læge, Tid til at nedrive og Tid til at opbygge,
Tid til at græde og Tid til at le, Tid til at sørge og Tid til at danse,
Tid til at kaste Sten, og Tid til at sanke Sten, Tid til at favne og Tid til ikke at favne,
Tid til at søge og Tid til at miste, Tid til at gemme og Tid til at bortkaste,
Tid til at flænge og Tid til at sy, Tid til at tie og Tid til at tale,
Tid til at elske og Tid til at hade, Tid til Krig og Tid til Fred.
- Prædikerens Bog 3,1-8

Thi Menneskers og Dyrs Skæbne er ens; som den ene dør, dør den anden, og en og samme Ånd har de alle; Mennesket har intet forud for Dyrene, thi alt er Tomhed.
Alle går sammesteds hen, alle blev til af Muld, og alle vender tilbage til Mulden.
Hvo ved, om Menneskenes Ånd stiger opad, og om Dyrenes Ånd farer nedad til Jorden?
Således indså jeg, at intet er bedre for Mennesket end at glæde sig ved sin Gerning, thi det er hans Del; thi hvo kan bringe ham så vidt, at han kan se, hvad der kommer efter hans Død?
- Prædikerens Bog 3,19-22