Asparval wrote:
Why be sad?
We didn't know him (or maybe you did?) and we can still hear his voice so how can we miss that?
He was 71, isn't he supposed to be dead or very nearly by then?
Because we are human, and therefore saddened by the demise of anything remotely lovely, as it reminds us of our own frail and temporal nature.
You made me laugh with your endearing uber-aspie comment, but you also reminded me of two very serious bits of poetry. I don't suppose they will interest many besides myself, but I will share them nevertheless, following the urges of my own aspie ways.
Quote:
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Spring and Fall, to a Young Child"
Quote:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
~John Keats, from Book 1 of "Endymion"
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The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them. -Antoine de Saint Exupéry