My death is a horrible formality; the death of the people I love is an ontological catastrophe. The gradual extinction of persons dear to us as we grow older depopulates the world and makes the survivor an anachronism in an empty universe. "Living a long time means surviving many persons," said Goethe. So all that we are allowed is a brief eternity. As long as we love, as long as we create, we remain immortal. We have to cherish life enough to accept that one day it will leave us and hand over its enjoyment to the following generations. (p. 190)
If a childhood is by nature ungrateful, that is because it needs all its strength to construct itself; gratitude comes later, when we feel capable of being disinterested and making sacrifices. Life is simultaneously a gift and a debt: an absurd gift given us by Providence and a debt that we have to repay to those close to us. There comes a time when we have to return to our family, our friends, our parents, our homeland, the benefits they have lavished on us. We don't repay our life debts; we recognize them, and honor them by taking care of our descendants in turn. The day when the debt is extinguished is also the day when life is extinguished, when we can no longer give or return anything to others, and we become, through death, the prey of the living. (pp. 195-196)
...We remain free only by immersing ourselves among others -- brothers, friends, companions, parents -- always curious, never resigned. We will lose our corporal envelope, disappear in the flux, become ashes once again. So what? We have always been transitory, part of a whole that transcends us. Let us rejoice to have continued to live and still to be able to enjoy the bounties of this world.
In the evening of life, however happy or painful it may be, we gauge the good fortune we've been given. We have been simultaneously hurt and fulfilled. Many of our prayers have not been heard; others, which we haven't formulated, have been granted a hundred times over. We have gone through nightmares and received treasures. Life has been cruel as well as heady and opulent.
The only word we ought to utter every morning, in recognition of the gift we have been given, is: Thanks.
We were owed nothing.
Thanks for this mad grace. (p. 197)