Oct 15 24

16 min read

Memento Mori

The Present is Forever

Explore Sylvia Plath's contemplation of existence and time in her unparalleled journals. Uncover the profound insights in our interactive lessons.

In the following passage, Sylvia Plath confronts the transient nature of life, likening the present to quicksand, a vivid metaphor for time's relentless pull. Beyond the cliché of time's flight, we confront the struggle against becoming history's footnote. Plath offers a stark reminder of our collective march towards oblivion, yet paradoxically, it unites us with every human who has ever lived, anchoring our fleeting existence in the broader human story.

With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone, it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start.

A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me.

Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die.

"Holy Sonnet X"

Explore John Donne's challenge to Death in "Holy Sonnet X" and discover why immortality renders it powerless. Learn the profound insights within.

John Donne's poem "Death Be Not Proud," addresses and humbles Death personified.Donne roasts Death on several accounts. How can Death be powerful when it keeps company with a bunch of lowlifes: poison, war, and sickness. How can death be powerful when it's a slave to "fate, chance, kings, and desperate men." Death isn't even good at its job—poppies and charms are better for inducing rest.

Donne's ultimate humiliation of Death is that it is neither fearsome nor final, but illusory and transient. After "One short sleep past, we wake eternally, / And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die."

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.

"Death, be not proud" is one of the nineteen sonnets from Donne's Holy Sonnets. It is considered one of his best works and is a centerpiece in the movie "Wit," about an English professor (played by Emma Thompson) who is diagnosed with ovarian cancer.

"Black Stone on Top of a White Stone"

Explore César Vallejo's raw encounter with mortality in 'Black Stone on Top of a White Stone'. Delve into life's solitude and inevitable ends with our insightful lesson.

"Black Stone on a White Stone" was written by César Vallejo, a Peruvian poet who spent much of his life in Europe, particularly Paris. This poem could be from the late 1920s, a time when Vallejo was facing poverty and isolation.

The poem begins with the speaker's foretelling of their own demise: "I will die in Paris with a rainstorm." César is fearless, "I don't shy away," and yet feels the weight of life on his shoulders, "I've put on my humeri in a bad mood." (Humeri are shoulder bones.) He is alone but pummeled by hardships personified. "The Thursday days and the humerus bones, the solitude, the rain, the roads"—are listed as witnesses to the poet’s death.

I will die in Paris with a rainstorm, on a day I already remember, I will die in Paris—and I don't shy away— perhaps on a Thursday, as today is, in autumn.

It will be Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I prose these lines, I've put on my humeri in a bad mood, and, today like never before, I've turned back, with all of my road, to see myself alone.

César Vallejo has died; they kept hitting him, everyone, even though he does nothing to them, they gave it to him hard with a club and hard

also with a rope; witnesses are the Thursday days and the humerus bones, the solitude, the rain, the roads. . .

"For the Anniversary of My Death"

Explore W.S. Merwin's introspective poetry on life's fleeting nature with "For the Anniversary of My Death"—find profound insights into existence.

W.S. Merwin served as the U.S. Poet Laureate, wrote over fifty books, and won two Pulitzers. He died in his sleep at age ninety-one. Here he writes, "For the Anniversary of My Death."

Each year, Merwin unknowingly passes the day that will mark his death, a day when "the last fires will wave" to him and the "silence will set out."Life has felt like a "strange garment" worn by the "tireless traveler." Death will bring the end of experiencing and surprise, but the traveler will persist like a "beam of a lightless star."

In a prior lesson, John Updike expanded from his morning orange juice into a cosmic contemplation of death. Here we begin with cosmic death and contract into a rainy day and a singing wren, the poet "bowing not knowing to what."

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day When the last fires will wave to me And the silence will set out Tireless traveler Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer Find myself in life as in a strange garment Surprised at the earth And the love of one woman And the shamelessness of men

As today writing after three days of rain Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease And bowing not knowing to what

Think Each Day Thy Last

"Explore Montaigne's insight on life's vividness through learning to die; embrace philosophy's power to enrich living."

Michel de Montaigne was a towering figure of the French Renaissance. His essays explored human experience with wit, introspection, and a healthy dose of skepticism.

"Let us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him." Michel de Montaigne wants us to familiarize ourselves with death. By weaving thoughts of death into daily life, even into joy and celebration, we can reduce its terror. "At the stumbling of a horse, at the falling of a tile, at the least prick with a pin," let us consider, "what if it had been death itself?’"

Let us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him. And to begin to deprive him of the greatest advantage he has over us, let us take a way quite contrary to the common course.

Upon all occasions represent him to our imagination in his every shape; at the stumbling of a horse, at the falling of a tile, at the least prick with a pin, let us presently consider, and say to ourselves, ‘Well, and what if it had been death itself?’ and, thereupon, let us encourage and fortify ourselves.

Let us evermore, amidst our jollity and feasting, set the remembrance of our frail condition before our eyes, never suffering ourselves to be so far transported with our delights, but that we have some intervals of reflecting upon, and considering how many several ways this jollity of ours tends to death, and with how many dangers it threatens it.

"This Living Hand"

Explore Keats' chilling masterpiece "This living hand" - a poetic exploration of life, mortality, and haunting presence. Learn its profound impact on you.

Battered by tuberculosis, John Keats composed "This living hand, now warm and capable." It may or may not be addressed to his fiancée Fanny Brawne, who he declined to marry due to his failing health.

Keats warns of a haunting presence from beyond the grave: his own dead hand. This hand would "haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights" until you'd wish "thine own heart dry of blood."

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed – see here it is – I hold it towards you.

Keats is grasping for a warm connection before the "icy silence of the tomb." Similar to a carpe diem poem, he's urging the living to seize the warmth of life before the "conscience-calm'd." Keats died in 1921, a year after this poem was written.

"The Illusion of Second Chances"

Discover the reflective musings on life and time in John Updike's 'Self-Consciousness.' Explore now.

John Updike was an American novelist known for his portrayals of suburban life. His work captured the desires and frustrations of the American middle class, earning him two Pulitzer Prizes. The following text is from a series of self-effacing introspections he wrote at age fifty-five, after a successful writing career.

He begins by noting an "idle aesthetic delight" in his grandsons, a pleasure he rarely had with his own children "except when they were asleep." The ordinary details of his morning prompt a contemplation of existence. "Can happiness be simply a matter of orange juice?"

Each morning is another chance. The days and years "suggest that existence is intrinsically cyclical, a playful spin." And yet life is "inexorably" (unpreventably) linear. "How solemn and huge and deeply pathetic our life does loom in its once and-doneness."

Can happiness be simply a matter of orange juice? Is it not the singularity of life that terrifies us? Is it not the decisive difference between comedy and tragedy that tragedy denies us another chance?

Shakespeare over and over demonstrates life’s singularity—the irrevocability of our decisions, hasty and even mad though they be.

How solemn and huge and deeply pathetic our life does loom in its once and-doneness, how inexorably linear, even though our rotating, revolving planet offers us the cycles of the day and of the year to suggest that existence is intrinsically cyclical, a playful spin, and that there will always be, tomorrow morning or the next, another chance.

"Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night"

Discover the defiant spirit in Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" and explore its call to celebrate life fiercely. Learn the poignant layers of this timeless villanelle.

"Do not go gentle into that good night" is Dylan Thomas's most famous poem, written for his dying father in 1947. Thomas says every kind of man has a reason to rage against death.- The wise ones "know dark is right," but their words haven't mattered or inspired. - The good ones see that no "green bay" has come from their "frail deeds." - The wild ones didn't see death coming and spent their lives chasing the uncatchable. - The grave ones did see death coming but could blaze like meteors if given more time.

The poem's final appeal is to his father on a "sad height," where Thomas delivers his iconic line, "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."

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.

"Persimmon"

Explore the profound layers of Anya Krugovoy Silver’s "Persimmon," where ripening fruit mirrors a spiritual quest and battle with illness. Discover beauty in life’s trials with our interactive lessons in literature.

Anya Krugovoy Silver died at age forty-eight. She wrote "Persimmon" with her body battered by cancer. She commends the persimmon—that it is perfected as its "body bruises and softens."

I place you by my window so your skin can receive the setting sun, so your flesh will yield to succulence, lush with juice, so the saints of autumn will bless your flaming fruit

because cancer has left me tiredbecause when I visit God’s houses, I enter and leave alone not even in the melting beeswax, and swinging musk of incense has God visited me, not when I’ve bowed or kneeled or sung

because I have found God instead when I crouched in bathrooms, lain back for the burning of my skin, covered my face and cursedPersimmon: votive candle at the icon of my kitchen window your four-petaled stem the eye of God in the Temple’s dome, tabernacle of pulp and seed dwelling place for my wandering prayers

I am learning from you how to praiseBecause when your body bruises and softens, you are perfected because your soul, persimmon, is sugar.

In the Zen tradition, ordinary objects can teach the Dharma (or Truth) as adeptly as a Zen master. So long as the student approaches with reverence, any object can teach. Silver credits the persimmon with teaching her "how to praise."

Life is Tragic

Explore James Baldwin's take on life and mortality in "The Fire Next Time." Learn to embrace our journey with passion and nobility.

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time.

Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have.

It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one's death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible to life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return. One must negotiate this passage as nobly as possible, for the sake of those who are coming after us.

The Present is the Same for Everyone

Explore the timeless wisdom of Marcus Aurelius's 'Meditations'. Read the insights on living the present moment. Read more & find clarity.

Marcus Aurelius was the last of the "Five Good Emperors" of Rome. He is the quintessential "philosopher king" and a great teacher of Stoicism. The next excerpt is from his famous "Meditations."

Marcus Aurelius warns "you cannot lose another life than the one you’re living now, or live another one than the one you’re losing." Life is irreplaceable. The present is the same for everyone and is our sole possession. The "longest-lived" and the one to die soonest lose the same thing.

Even if you’re going to live three thousand more years, or ten times that, remember: you cannot lose another life than the one you’re living now, or live another one than the one you’re losing. The longest amounts to the same as the shortest.

The present is the same for everyone; its loss is the same for everyone; and it should be clear that a brief instant is all that is lost. For you can’t lose either the past or the future; how could you lose what you don’t have?

Remember two things: 1) that everything has always been the same, and keeps recurring, and it makes no difference whether you see the same things recur in a hundred years or two hundred, or in an infinite period;

2) that the longest-lived and those who will die soonest lose the same thing. The present is all that they can give up, since that is all you have, and what you do not have, you cannot lose.