A close second
Dying, I can do no better than dying. Death is beyond anyone’s ability to relate; but here too, I can give you its pronouncement and first appearance.
Dying is not as complicated as people suppose, and it is certainly not as proud as some thinkers make it out to be in their lofty writings. Perhaps my reader remembers one afternoon in early childhood, when, being out in some strange place, the tyranny of a sudden moment stole your parents out of sight. Can you recount the physicality of the terror, can you travel back to the panic of having lost them in the crowd? That bowelled sickness in youth is what revisits you at the announcement of your death. And dying? Dying is every moment after that; every second you pass in that darkening place, filled with the faces of strangers and monsters; where the cruelty of something you do not comprehend, for that very reason, makes you cry and shriek all the more; where only a moment before you were happy to belong to the familiarity, do you now stand in a massive enigma, innocent of all connection to it. Dying is the forgetting of one’s self. Living is the knowing of one’s self, with all his fears and all his sadness, with all his regrets and mournful years. Any sentiment arising amid the lingering day, amid the comforting permanence which remains a delusion until it can no longer suppose itself for another hour; the fear and trembling of night that knows its morning; the shivering that warms itself in tomorrow’s sun; the fullest pains that befall us amid the state of living—these are the most indescribable raptures of joy amid that other state of dying.