Old age isn't a battle; old age is a massacre. — Philip Roth

Why must he mistrust his life just when he was more its master than he'd been in years?.

Should he ever write an autobiography, he'd call it The Life and Death of a Male Body.

He went under feeling far from felled, anything but doomed, eager yet again to be fulfilled, but nonetheless, he never woke up. Cardiac arrest. He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it. Just as he'd feared from the start.