"I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful; it is gentle and gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault."
I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment's abatement of spirits; insomuch that were I to name the period of my life which I should most choose to pass over again, I might be tempted to point to this later period. I possess the same ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company; I consider, besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few years of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary reputation's breaking out at last with additional lustre, I know that I could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more detached from life than I am at present. "To conclude historically with my own character, I am, or rather was (for that is the style I must now use in speaking of myself); I was, I say, a man of mild dispositions, of command of temper, of an open, social, and cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper, notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not unacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and literary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest women, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with from them. In a word, though most men any wise eminent, have found reason to complain of calumny, I never was touched or even attacked by her baleful tooth; and though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct; not but that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot say there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is easily cleared and ascertained.
According to microbiologist Robert Young, excess protein causes the pH of the body’s tissues to become too acidic. He emphasizes that this acidic condition is unhealthy and signals to bacteria in and around the body that the body is weak, decaying, and dying.16 When any animal dies, as the life ebbs out of it, its flesh becomes increasingly acidic, signaling microorganisms in the region that it is time for them to do their job and break the flesh down so that it can return to the earth and be recycled. According to his research, instead of harboring primarily beneficial bacteria that aid in the various life-support processes of the body, the bodies of human omnivores may tend to harbor primarily destructive bacteria that are simply trying to do their natural job of breaking the body down because it gives signals, by the high acid content of the tissues and the presence of putrefying animal flesh, that it is dying.
Life begins perpetually. Gathered together at last under the leadership of man, the student-teacher of the universe... unified, disciplined, armed with the scret powers of the atom, and with knowledge as yet beyond dreaming, Life, forever dying to be born afresh, forever young and eager, will presently stand upon this earth as upon a footstool, and stretch out its realm amidst the stars.
If aged and life-weary men have called to their neighbours: "Think of dying!" we younger and life-loving men may well keep encouraging and reminding one another with the cheerful words: "Think of wandering!"
Men's skin is different from women's skin. It is usually bigger, and it has more snakes tattooed on it. Also, if you examine a woman's skin very closely, inch by inch, starting at her shapely ankles, then gently tracing the slender curve of her calves, then moving up to her ... [EDITOR'S NOTE: To make room for news articles about important world events such as agriculture, we're going to delete the next few square feet of the woman's skin. Thank you.] ... until finally the two of you are lying there, spent, smoking your cigarettes, and suddenly it hits you: Human skin is actually made up of billions of tiny units of protoplasm, called "cells"! And what is even more interesting, the ones on the outside are all dying! This is a fact. Your skin is like an aggressive modern corporation, where the older veteran cells, who have finally worked their way to the top and obtained offices with nice views, are constantly being shoved out the window head first, without so much as a pension plan, by younger hotshot cells moving up from below. -- Dave Barry, "Saving Face"
"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."
The count had just opened a door. Immediately a brilliant light from the next room, or rather from the palace adjoining, shone upon the room in which he was gently gliding into his last sleep. Then he saw a woman of marvellous beauty appear on the threshold of the door separating the two rooms. Pale, and sweetly smiling, she looked like an angel of mercy conjuring the angel of vengeance. "Is it heaven that opens before me?" thought the dying man; "that angel resembles the one I have lost." Monte Cristo pointed out Morrel to the young woman, who advanced towards him with clasped hands and a smile upon her lips.
"Extremely," replied he; "she looked so pale this morning, I scarcely knew her." These apparently simple words pierced Morrel to the heart. This man had seen Valentine, and spoken to her! The young and high-spirited officer required all his strength of mind to resist breaking his oath. He took the arm of Chateau-Renaud, and turned towards the vault, where the attendants had already placed the two coffins. "This is a magnificent habitation," said Beauchamp, looking towards the mausoleum; "a summer and winter palace. You will, in turn, enter it, my dear d'Epinay, for you will soon be numbered as one of the family. I, as a philosopher, should like a little country-house, a cottage down there under the trees, without so many free-stones over my poor body. In dying, I will say to those around me what Voltaire wrote to Piron: 'Eo rus, and all will be over.' But come, Franz, take courage, your wife is an heiress."
He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture, the provisions his jailer brought him--at first gayly, then with deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young--he was only four or five and twenty--he had nearly fifty years to live. What unforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.
The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud, And flew sublime, and vanish'd in a cloud. Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground. Then, thankless for a life redeem'd by shame, With sense of honor stung, and forfeit fame, Fearful besides of what in fight had pass'd, His hands and haggard eyes to heav'n he cast; "O Jove!" he cried, "for what offense have Deserv'd to bear this endless infamy? Whence am I forc'd, and whether am I borne? How, and with what reproach, shall I return? Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, Or see Laurentum's lofty tow'rs again? What will they say of their deserting chief The war was mine: I fly from their relief; I led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave; And ev'n from hence their dying groans receive. Here, overmatch'd in fight, in heaps they lie; There, scatter'd o'er the fields, ignobly fly. Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive! Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve! On sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive; Or set me shipwrack'd on some desart shore, Where no Rutulian eyes may see me more, Unknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame, Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim."
Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast number of poor people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed; and I have been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be taken, to ease the nation of so grievous an incumbrance. But I am not in the least pain upon that matter, because it is very well known, that they are every day dying, and rotting, by cold and famine, and filth, and vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected. And as to the young labourers, they are now in almost as hopeful a condition. They cannot get work, and consequently pine away from want of nourishment, to a degree, that if at any time they are accidentally hired to common labour, they have not strength to perform it, and thus the country and themselves are happily delivered from the evils to come.
As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikhaylovna, passed the young man he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying man's high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly, leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon nothing.
When my ablutions were completed, I was put into clean linen of the stiffest character, like a young penitent into sackcloth, and was trussed up in my tightest and fearfullest suit. I was then delivered over to Mr. Pumblechook, who formally received me as if he were the Sheriff, and who let off upon me the speech that I knew he had been dying to make all along: "Boy, be forever grateful to all friends, but especially unto them which brought you up by hand!"
He said; they all unanimous approach'd, Sloping their shields, and stood. On the other side His aids Æneas call'd, with eyes toward Paris, Deiphobus, Agenor, turn'd, His fellow-warriors bold; them follow'd all Their people as the pastured flock the ram To water, by the shepherd seen with joy; Such joy Æneas felt, seeing, so soon, That numerous host attendant at his call. Then, for Alcathoüs, into contest close Arm'd with long spears they rush'd; on every breast Dread rang the brazen corselet, each his foe Assailing opposite; but two, the rest Surpassing far, terrible both as Mars, Æneas and Idomeneus, alike Panted to pierce each other with the spear. Æneas, first, cast at Idomeneus, But, warn'd, he shunn'd the weapon, and it pass'd. Quivering in the soil Æneas' lance Stood, hurl'd in vain, though by a forceful arm. Not so the Cretan; at his waist he pierced Oenomaüs, his hollow corselet clave, And in his midmost bowels drench'd the spear; Down fell the Chief, and dying, clench'd the dust. Instant, his massy spear the King of Crete Pluck'd from the dead, but of his radiant arms Despoil'd him not, by numerous weapons urged; For now, time-worn, he could no longer make Brisk sally, spring to follow his own spear, Or shun another, or by swift retreat Vanish from battle, but the evil day Warded in stationary fight alone. At him retiring, therefore, step by step Deiphobus, who had with bitterest hate Long time pursued him, hurl'd his splendid lance, But yet again erroneous, for he pierced Ascalaphus instead, offspring of Mars; Right through his shoulder flew the spear; he fell Incontinent, and dying, clench'd the dust. But tidings none the brazen-throated Mars Tempestuous yet received, that his own son In bloody fight had fallen, for on the heights Olympian over-arch'd with clouds of gold He sat, where sat the other Powers divine, Prisoners together of the will of Jove. Meantime, for slain Ascalaphus arose Conflict severe; Deiphobus his casque Resplendent seized, but swift as fiery Mars Assailing him, Meriones his arm Pierced with a spear, and from his idle hand Fallen, the casque sonorous struck the ground. Again, as darts the vulture on his prey, Meriones assailing him, the lance Pluck'd from his arm, and to his band retired. Then, casting his fraternal arms around Deiphobus, him young Polites led From the hoarse battle to his rapid steeds And his bright chariot in the distant rear, Which bore him back to Troy, languid and loud- Groaning, and bleeding from his recent wound. Still raged the war, and infinite arose The clamor. Aphareus, Caletor's son, Turning to face Æneas, in his throat Instant the hero's pointed lance received. With head reclined, and bearing to the ground Buckler and helmet with him, in dark shades Of soul-divorcing death involved, he fell. Antilochus, observing Thoön turn'd To flight, that moment pierced him; from his back He ripp'd the vein which through the trunk its course Winds upward to the neck; that vein he ripp'd All forth; supine he fell, and with both hands Extended to his fellow-warriors, died. Forth sprang Antilochus to strip his arms, But watch'd, meantime, the Trojans, who in crowds Encircling him, his splendid buckler broad Smote oft, but none with ruthless point prevail'd Even to inscribe the skin of Nestor's son, Whom Neptune, shaker of the shores, amid Innumerable darts kept still secure. Yet never from his foes he shrank, but faced From side to side, nor idle slept his spear, But with rotation ceaseless turn'd and turn'd To every part, now levell'd at a foe Far-distant, at a foe, now, near at hand. Nor he, thus occupied, unseen escaped By Asius' offspring Adamas, who close Advancing, struck the centre of his shield. But Neptune azure-hair'd so dear a life Denied to Adamas, and render'd vain The weapon; part within his disk remain'd Like a seer'd stake, and part fell at his feet. Then Adamas, for his own life alarm'd, Retired, but as he went, Meriones Him reaching with his lance, the shame between And navel pierced him, where the stroke of Mars Proves painful most to miserable man. There enter'd deep the weapon; down he fell, And in the dust lay panting as an ox Among the mountains pants by peasants held In twisted bands, and dragg'd perforce along; So panted dying Adamas, but soon Ceased, for Meriones, approaching, pluck'd The weapon forth, and darkness veil'd his eyes. Helenus, with his heavy Thracian blade Smiting the temples of Deipyrus, Dash'd off his helmet; from his brows remote It fell, and wandering roll'd, till at his feet Some warrior found it, and secured; meantime The sightless shades of death him wrapp'd around. Grief at that spectacle the bosom fill'd Of valiant Menelaus; high he shook His radiant spear, and threatening him, advanced On royal Helenus, who ready stood With his bow bent. They met; impatient, one, To give his pointed lance its rapid course, And one, to start his arrow from the nerve. The arrow of the son of Priam struck Atrides' hollow corselet, but the reed Glanced wide. As vetches or as swarthy beans Leap from the van and fly athwart the floor, By sharp winds driven, and by the winnower's force, So from the corselet of the glorious Greek Wide-wandering flew the bitter shaft away. But Menelaus the left-hand transpierced Of Helenus, and with the lance's point Fasten'd it to his bow; shunning a stroke More fatal, Helenus into his band Retired, his arm dependent at his side, And trailing, as he went, the ashen beam; There, bold Agenor from his hand the lance Drew forth, then folded it with softest wool Around, sling-wool, and borrow'd from the sling Which his attendant into battle bore. Then sprang Pisander on the glorious Chief The son of Atreus, but his evil fate Beckon'd him to his death in conflict fierce, Oh Menelaus, mighty Chief! with thee. And now they met, small interval between. Atrides hurl'd his weapon, and it err'd. Pisander with his spear struck full the shield Of glorious Menelaus, but his force Resisted by the stubborn buckler broad Fail'd to transpierce it, and the weapon fell Snapp'd at the neck. Yet, when he struck, the heart Rebounded of Pisander, full of hope. But Menelaus, drawing his bright blade, Sprang on him, while Pisander from behind His buckler drew a brazen battle-axe By its long haft of polish'd olive-wood, And both Chiefs struck together. He the crest That crown'd the shaggy casque of Atreus' son Hew'd from its base, but Menelaus him In his swift onset smote full on the front Above his nose; sounded the shatter'd bone, And his eyes both fell bloody at his feet. Convolved with pain he lay; then, on his breast Atrides setting fast his heel, tore off His armor, and exulting thus began.
Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls; They line their trenches, and they man their walls. In front extended to the left they stood; Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood. But, casting from their tow'rs a frightful view, They saw the faces, which too well they knew, Tho' then disguis'd in death, and smear'd all o'er With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore. Soon hasty fame thro' the sad city bears The mournful message to the mother's ears. An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes; Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes. She runs the rampires round amidst the war, Nor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair, And fills with loud laments the liquid air. "Thus, then, my lov'd Euryalus appears! Thus looks the prop my declining years! Was't on this face my famish'd eyes I fed? Ah! how unlike the living is the dead! And could'st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone? Not one kind kiss from a departing son! No look, no last adieu before he went, In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent! Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay, To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey! Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies, To call about his corpse his crying friends, Or spread the mantle (made for other ends) On his dear body, which I wove with care, Nor did my daily pains or nightly labor spare. Where shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains His trunk dismember'd, and his cold remains? For this, alas! I left my needful ease, Expos'd my life to winds and winter seas! If any pity touch Rutulian hearts, Here empty all your quivers, all your darts; Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe, And send me thunderstruck to shades below!" Her shrieks and clamors pierce the Trojans' ears, Unman their courage, and augment their fears; Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain, Nor old Ilioneus his tears restrain, But Actor and Idaeus jointly sent, To bear the madding mother to her tent.
The count stopped. "Well?" asked the young girl, with an authoritative tone the count had never observed before, and which startled him. "Well, if any misfortune happen to me," replied Monte Cristo, "I wish my daughter to be happy." Haidee smiled sorrowfully, and shook her head. "Do you think of dying, my lord?" said she.
"My good Handel, so he was. He married his second wife privately, because he was proud, and in course of time she died. When she was dead, I apprehend he first told his daughter what he had done, and then the son became a part of the family, residing in the house you are acquainted with. As the son grew a young man, he turned out riotous, extravagant, undutiful,--altogether bad. At last his father disinherited him; but he softened when he was dying, and left him well off, though not nearly so well off as Miss Havisham.--Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one's glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one's nose."
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,--one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!--wealth to the heart!--a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;--not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy--my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.