Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
— Paul Bowles in The Sheltering Sky:
In this respect, using Lisp is like living in a rich country instead of a poor one: it may seem unfortunate that one has to work to stay thin, but surely this is better than working to stay alive, and being thin as a matter of course.
— Paul Graham in On Lisp. pg. 285