death

Someday you will read or hear that Billy Graham is dead. Don__ you believe a word of it! I shall be more alive than I am now. I will just have changed my address. I will have gone into the presence of God.

For the Christian, death can be faced realistically and with victory, because he knows __hat neither death nor life . . . shall be able to separate us from the love of God_ [Romans 8:38_39 NKJV].

Death is said in the Bible to be a coronation for the Christian.

What happened when we died? How were we to know that death wasn't as profound an adventure as life was?

I knew then that I would devote every minute we had left together to making her happy, to repairing the pain I had caused her and returning to her what I never known how to give her. These pages will be our memory until she drows her last breath in my arms and I take her forever and escape at last to a place where neither heaven nor hell will ever be able to find us.

I wanted something that would address the strengths and weaknesses of humanity. I wanted a story that could move readers. My Honor Flight is that story.

The dead tread softly... And those stalking the living tread even more lightly.

I was born in a hospital. I do not want to die in one.

My journey was not over, it was just beginning.

Capture your youth, while you can.

Enjoy the adventure, because that__ what it__ all about - the process, not the result. The ultimate result is death. The ultimate process is life. Fact.

Nothing expresses Kafka__ innermost sense of self more profoundly than his lapidary definition of __riting as a form of prayer_: he was a writer. Not a man who wrote, but one to whom writing was the only form of being, the only means of defying death in life.

It isn't dying I'm afraid of, it isn't that at all; I know what it is to die, I've died already. It is the endless obliteration, the knowledge that there will never be anything else. That's what I can't stand, to try so hard and to end in nothing. You know what I mean, don't you? ... I really loved to write.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

Crippled and crazy, we hobble toward the finish line, pen in hand.

Death is almost never timely, even for the old.

Every artist takes their final work to the grave.

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist.