Space Doesn't Just Encompass The Sublime And

One Young Woman's Tribute Describes Unwrapping Her Cadaver's Hands And Being Brought Up Short By The Realization That The Nails Were Painted Pink. "the Pictures In The Anatomy Atlas Did Not Show Nail Polish", She Wrote. "did You Choose The Color? Did You Think That I Would See It? I Wanted To Tell You About The Inside Of Your Hands. I Want You To Know You Are Always There When I See Patients. When I Palpate An Abdomen, Yours Are The Organs I Imagine. When I Listen To A Heart, I Recall Holding Your Heart.

The Broader The Topic, The Easier It Is, Not Only To Fill A Book, But To Set The Bar Pretty High For Really Great Stuff.

I Dont Fear Death So Much As I Fear Its Prologues: Loneliness, Decrepitude, Pain, Debilitation, Depression, Senility. After A Few Years Of Those, I Imagine Death Presents Like A Holiday At The Beach.

You Won't See Me Writing About Particle Physics, Or Even Planetary Geology, Or Chemistry. I Practically Failed Chemistry, And If I Had To Write A Book In Any Of Those Areas, I Don't Think It Would Go Well.

It Would Be Especially Comforting To Believe That I Have The Answer To The Question, What Happens When We Die? Does The Light Just Go Out And That's That-the Million-year Nap? Or Will Some Part Of My Personality, My Me-ness, Persist? What Will That Feel Like? What Will I Do All Day? Is There A Place To Plug In My Laptop?