There is nothing which at once affects a man so much and so little as his
own death. It is a case in which the going-to-happen-ness of a thing is
of greater importance than the actual thing itself which cannot be of
importance to the man who dies, for Death cuts his own throat in the
matter of hurting people. As a bee that can sting once but in the
stinging dies, so Death is dead to him who is dead already. While he is
shaking his wings, there is _brutum fulmen_ but the man goes on living,
frightened, perhaps, but unhurt; pain and sickness may hurt him but the
moment Death strikes him both he and Death are beyond feeling. It is as
though Death were born anew with every man; the two protect one another
so long as they keep one another at arm’s length, but if they once
embrace it is all over with both.