| Amount of texts to »life« | 141, and there are 135 texts (95.74%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3) |
| Average lenght of texts | 111 Characters |
| Average Rating | 3.652 points, 23 Not rated texts |
| First text | on May 19th 2000, 10:15:44 wrote Pat about life |
| Latest text | on Nov 1st 2015, 09:10:02 wrote carolyn stewart about life |
| Some texts that have not been rated at all
(overall: 23) |
on Sep 1st 2005, 04:31:03 wrote
on Apr 24th 2002, 01:36:06 wrote
on Jul 13th 2009, 23:34:16 wrote |
I wonder what it was in Emily Dickinson's life that made her think that parting partook of heaven – especially if she was talking about the final parting of death, which I assume she was.
For me, another great poet, Goethe, was nearer the mark, when he said that we must always be careful – for every parting with those we love contains within it the seeds of madness....
I'm still not sure about the meaning of life. Fortunately, this is not a graded essay!
Is there any intelligent life on earth?
Yes, but I am only visiting.
Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.
(George Bernard Shaw)
When it comes time to cash in that Ninth Life, I hope I will be in the sea. Man is a fish in exile. To become part of a kaleidoscopically dazzling coral reef certainly seems preferable to becoming food for worms in a city cemetery or burning in a crematory oven for an hour and a half.
Living on earth is expensive, but it does include a free trip around the sun.
My Life Closed Twice Before it Closed
by Emily Dickinson
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that then remains of me.
---------- Anna Lætitia Barbauld. 1743–1825
Some say life is the thing, but I prefer reading.
(Ruth Rendell)
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