Mortality


Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End
When Breath Becomes Air
Mortality
Smoke Gets in Your Eyes & Other Lessons from the Crematory
The Death of Ivan Ilych
From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death
The Year of Magical Thinking
The Denial of Death
The Fault in Our Stars
The Last Lecture
How We Die: Reflections of Life's Final Chapter
Tuesdays with Morrie: An Old Man, a Young Man, and Life's Greatest Lesson
Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals
Man's Search for Meaning
The Bright Hour: A Memoir of Living and Dying
Stiff by Mary RoachSmoke Gets in Your Eyes & Other Lessons from the Crematory by Caitlin DoughtyHamlet by William ShakespeareFrom Here to Eternity by Caitlin DoughtyThe Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Thanatopsis: Death, Dying, and Mortality
583 books — 264 voters
Should We Go Extinct? by Todd  MayWill My Cat Eat My Eyeballs? And Other Questions About Dead B... by Caitlin DoughtyDeath Nesting by Anne-Marie KeppelDeath Interrupted by Blair BighamThis Is Assisted Dying by Stefanie Green
Death Cafe Picks
10 books — 1 voter

The Hour of Our Death by Philippe ArièsThe American Way of Death Revisited by Jessica MitfordNorse Mythology by Neil GaimanStiff by Mary RoachA Tomb With a View by Peter Ross
Silent Book Club of Death
93 books — 3 voters

Ian McEwan
It is photography itself that creates the illusion of innocence. Its ironies of frozen narrative lend to its subjects an apparent unawareness that they will change or die. It is the future they are innocent of. Fifty years on we look at them with the godly knowledge of how they turne dout after all - who they married, the date of their death - with no thought for who will one day be holding photographs of us.
Ian McEwan, Black Dogs

Voltaire
I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?
Voltaire, Candide, or, Optimism

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