Books are not life, only its ashes.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
Meditation upon death does not teach one how to die; it does not make the departure more easy, but ease is not what I seek. Beloved boy, so willful and brooding, your sacrifice will have enriched not my life but my death. ... Centuries as yet unborn within the dark womb of time would pass by thousands over that tomb without restoring life to him, but likewise without adding to his death, and without changing the fact that he had been.
Interpretation
What this quote means
Meditation on death brings clarity, not necessarily comfort, about mortality and loss.
In this quote, Yourcenar reflects on the nature of death and the emotional complexity surrounding loss. The speaker suggests that contemplating death does not offer an easier way to face it, but rather deepens the understanding of life and the inevitable finality of death. The mention of a beloved boy hints at the profound impact of grief, indicating that while time may pass, the essence of those lost remains unchanged, and the sacrifice of loss enriches the experiencer's perception of death itself.
Themes
DeathMeditationLossGriefPhilosophy
In practice
Example use cases
In a eulogy, one might say, 'As Marguerite Yourcenar reminds us, meditation upon death invites deeper reflection on our lives and losses.'
More from Marguerite Yourcenar
All quotes βOur true birthplace is that in which we cast for the first time an intelligent eye on ourselves. My first homelands were my books.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
The landscape of my days appears to be composed, like mountainous regions, of varied materials heaped up pell-mell. There I see my nature, itself composite, made up of equal parts of instinct and training. Here and there protrude the granite peaks of the inevitable, but all about is rubble from the landslips of chance.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
When two texts, or two assertions, perhaps two ideas, are in contradiction, be ready to reconcile them rather than cancel one by the other; regard them as two different facets, or two successive stages, of the same reality, a reality convincingly human just because it is too complex.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
Passion such as hers is all consent, asking little in return. I had merely to enter a room where she was to see her face take on that peaceful expression of one who is resting in bed. If I touched her, I had the impression that all the blood in her veins was turning to honey.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
The founding of libraries was like constructing more public granaries, amassing reserves against a spiritual winter which by certain signs, in spite of myself, I see ahead.
Marguerite YourcenarRead
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