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Theme of life and death in literature
Death theme in literature
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Recommended: Theme of life and death in literature
I was wondering, why? Why was I alive? I was the one to be alive, when so many died. Everyone, old, young, rich, poor, gentlemen and sailors. So much death makes fear and fear makes supposition. I was sitting in a hospital, the floor was a blinding white, tiles place together with inches apart. It was so clean you can eat off it. It was all that I can look at, as well as my penny loafers. Ragged and scruffy, a huge contrast of what beauty I step on. Sometimes times I glance up and look at the infected zombies that inhabited this sanctuary. The barking voices play in the most disjointed orchestra I had ever heard. Those infected was that was in the waiting room was put behind a glass window. The line to visit someone was shorter than those that was seeking treatment. “Harold Davis, if you can come in and see your sister.” Said the nurse. I got with a amount of speed that tested Hermes himself. I rushed to the door, gust of wind followed me. The cough echo among the empty room, yet it was quiet but strong. …show more content…
You may wish to say goodbye, but if you do put on this mask.” it was a plague mask. Its was a pure white mask, not a smidge of dirt. The nose was long and erect, slashing the thickness of the illness at the brim. I placed the heavy combination of plastic and metal over my narrow pale face. It was like my mother kisses cold, unwanted, and unloving. Glancing over my sister area, it seems like I'm in another world observing, but not feeling it. It was surreal. It was like really good book you're there but not there. “You are the best man I ever met, I love you big brother.” She scraped out her mouth. “ You're there when our mom went insane. And I was married and widowed. You going to take care oh my love child. You did so much for me and Piper, I love
My grandmother has a certain look in her eyes when something is troubling her: she stares off in a random direction with a wistful, slightly bemused expression on her face, as if she sees something the rest of us can’t see, knows something that we don’t know. It is in these moments, and these moments alone, that she seems distant from us, like a quiet observer watching from afar, her body present but her mind and heart in a place only she can visit. She never says it, but I know, and deep inside, I think they do as well. She wants to be a part of our world. She wants us to be a part of hers. But we don’t belong. Not anymore. Not my brothers—I don’t think they ever did. Maybe I did—once, a long time ago, but I can’t remember anymore. I love my grandmother. She knows that. I know she does, even if I’m never able to convey it adequately to her in words.
It was a village on a hill, all joyous and fun where there was a meadow full of blossomed flowers. The folks there walked with humble smiles and greeted everyone they passed. The smell of baked bread and ginger took over the market. At the playing grounds the children ran around, flipped and did tricks. Mama would sing and Alice would hum. Papa went to work but was always home just in time to grab John for dinner. But Alice’s friend by the port soon fell ill, almost like weeds of a garden that takes over, all around her went unwell. Grave yards soon became over populated and overwhelmed with corpse.
When one thinks of war they think of one side attacking the other, but in this war we spend much of our time in damp, muddy trenches, which smell of sewage and rotting corpses. The sun is high so we all lay low in the trenches to avoid sniper fire. So I sit and rest enjoying the break, using the time to clean my bolt-action rifle. My fellow brothers-in-arms are busy taking care of everyday tasks such as personal hygiene or writing letters home.
"It is because the human spirit knows, deep down, that all lives intersect. That death doesn't just take someone, it misses someone else, and in the small distance between taken and being missed, lives are changed." I learned that all lives connect somehow and that our choices affect others whether we know it or not. "Strangers are just family you have yet to come to know," perhaps one day in heaven. I began to realize the nights I spent thinking I was alone were the only true nights I wasted in my life because through this interconnection of lives, "you can no more separate one life from another than you can separate a breeze from the wind.
Like you, I love to read, especially when the author writes in a style that is interesting and descriptive. Although I have never read a book by Colleen Hoover, I genuinely enjoy reading your post about her novel, It Ends with Us. The quote you chose is an excellent example of descriptive writing. Hoover gives the character life through her description; I can almost see him right in front of me, head in hands and breathing arduously. Her audience certainly becomes enthralled in her books because of her incredible writing capabilities. Not only does she give the reader tremendous detail, she does so in a way that is engaging for the reader; she paints a picture in her reader's mind. Are there other books by this author that you would suggest
As I walked down the corridor I noticed a man lying in a hospital bed with only a television, two dressers, and a single window looking out at nothing cluttering his room. Depression overwhelmed me as I stared at the man laying on his bed, wearing a hospital gown stained by failed attempts to feed himself and watching a television that was not on. The fragments of an existence of a life once active and full of conviction and youth, now laid immovable in a state of unconsciousness. He was unaffected by my presence and remained in his stupor, despondently watching the blank screen. The solitude I felt by merely observing the occupants of the home forced me to recognize the mentality of our culture, out with the old and in with the new.
14 year old Blake Godwin runs through the hallway of West Florida High School on a rainy Tuesday morning. When he reached the end of the hallway he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked up slowly and there it was the monster that has been terrorizing West Florida high. Blake knew he would have to act quick before this green slimy putrid monster could capture anymore students and turn him into his kind. Blake has never used his superpowers before but he knew it would all come to him when lives where on the line like today.
Who brought me here? Out of impulse, my hand travels to my face, pressing the throbbing area on my right temple. I felt a scar and flinched at the pain. I tried to get up. Once I stepped on the cold, white tiles, I instantly fell back on to the bed. My body, engulfed in pain as if objecting my decision to stand up. I lay there pathetically, waiting for the pain to wash away. Staring at the ceiling, illuminated with a white fluorescent light. Perhaps waiting for some help by the hospital staff. I still didn't know how I got here, who took me here, how long I've been here.
I awake to lukewarm water dripping down my forehead from a damp towel. I feel a thick liquid against my back. I scan the area, Unfamiliar. I find myself lying in a cot in a filthy room. The sight room itself was depressing, not that it was in extremely bad conditions but it was all…brown, the kind of brown that makes you feel depressed. It reeked of fish and motor oil, one of the queerest combinations of scents I have encountered. My ears start to pick up the deep monotones of a man speaking in other room. In my drowsy state I couldn’t make out exactly what he said but I did manage to g...
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
I laid in the cotton blanket, staring at the grey ceiling. It was like every other basic hospital room. This included the beeping machines, pastel curtains, and that oh so marvelous smell that is associated with the place. The only thing that was remotely interesting was the window. Not the window itself but the view. The room overlooked dazzling crimsons and yellows of the fall trees that were similar to a blazing fire. It was almost enough to distract me from my unconscious sister.
...ave me a bright pink gift bag stuffed with shiny silver tissue paper to open. Inside was a shirt that read “I’M A BIG SISTER!” I put the sister shirt on and saw everything differently. “Today marks an important day and you’re going to hold your brother even though you’re nervous, you’re going take responsibility and be the best caring, loving sister you can be”, I said silently to myself.
I feel the sweltering sand from beneath my golden tan feet as I step foot on the beach. The smell of an afternoon barbecue encompasses my nose, and the squawk of the seagulls soaring high in the sky reassures me that the Marshfield beach is a place I will never get tired of visiting. Yells come from the immense shimmering ocean along with the crash of the 20 foot waves, viciously hitting the rough brown sand. My eyes become narrow, and I briskly jerk my head to the left to find Kayla floating in the sparkling blue ocean on her inner tube. The creases of my mouth stretch all the way up to my eyes; therefore, I am thrilled to see my best friend after spending countless weeks of the summer apart.
The great city of Anchorage calls my name, in the radiant crystal flakes of snow delitcaley making its way down to Alaska to seek refuge on the ground. The city of my birth calls my name to roam around in the beautiful white snow. The description of Anchorage, Alaska can be seen all in a picture long ago a picture of a four year old girl smiling not having a clue in the world that she would no longer be apart of the glorious snow glistening near her shuffle. All the way to McAllen,Texas where thirteen years later has a ticket in her hand and books a plane straight to Anchorage, Alaska.
I kept thinking about how bright the lights were and how on earth did they get those lights on the ceiling like that while I was being wheeled away. I was afraid, but only because I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t afraid of the nurses or the doctors surrounding me, making me try to breathe in this weird gas that smelt of candy I used to eat all the time. As the gas took affect I did realize, though, that the hospital was more than what I thought it was. These people don’t just give you shots to keep you from getting sick and they don’t just give you delicious candy and sweet smiles. These people can save lives. They were doing what I would have sworn on everything I knew that my mom could do and what I thought she should do. I realized for the first time that my mom actually couldn’t do anything and it confused me. As a little girl, my mother was the superheroes we all saw in the movies for me. Of course I didn’t hate her for it; it’s just that my very small world became a little bigger after being exposed to a changing situation. I realized things I never