I recently was notified of the passing of a nephew. Young, bright, talented but troubled ( Like a lot of us are). It took me several day for the impact to set in as I did not know him well but had heard many things about him. When the news finally settled in I cried for him, myself, and all those that knew him and will miss his presence. For his parents I am sure the horror of the loss is not to pass, ever. For this my heart goes to them in some totally inadequate attempt at comfort. For them I can only offer this from Mark Twain.
Life was not a valuable gift, but death was. Life was a fever-dream made up of joys embittered by sorrows, pleasure poisoned by pain; a dream that was a nightmare-confusion of spasmodic and fleeting delights, ecstasies, exultations, happinesses, interspersed with long-drawn miseries, griefs, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats,humiliations, and despairs--the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity; but death was sweet, death was gentle, death was kind; death healed the bruised spirit and the broken heart, and gave them rest and forgetfulness; death was man's best friend; when man could endure life no longer, death came and set him free.
- Letters from the Earth
