Mortality

by Christopher Hitchens

To the dumb question “Why me?” the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?

as if one might reasonably say of someone that they died after a long and brave struggle with mortality.

What do I hope for? If not a cure, then a remission. And what do I want back? In the most beautiful apposition of two of the simplest words in our language: the freedom of speech.

Death has this much to be said for it: You don’t have to get out of bed for it. Wherever you happen to be They bring it to you—free.

—Kingsley Amis

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn Suicide remarks are torn From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn

Plays wasted words, proves to warn That he not busy being born is busy dying. —Bob Dylan, “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”