Any man's death diminishes us, but when an artist passes away, we lose not just an island but an entire archipelago.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
One must be a living man and a posthumous artist.
No man is an island. No man stands alone.
The grief of the keen is no personal complaint for the death of one woman over eighty years, but seems to contain the whole passionate rage that lurks somewhere in every native of the island.
There is no death, only a change of worlds.
There is no such thing as death. In nature nothing dies. From each sad remnant of decay, some forms of life arise so shall his life be taken away before he knoweth that he hath it.
Films and gramophone records, music, books and buildings show clearly how vigorously a man's life and work go on after his 'death,' whether we feel it or not, whether we are aware of the individual names or not. There is no such thing as death according to our view!
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent.
Death is an art, you know.
Death is a delightful hiding place for weary men.
Every article on these islands has an almost personal character, which gives this simple life, where all art is unknown, something of the artistic beauty of medieval life.