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Living is dying, an unscripted, unconscious rehearsal for the premiere of death—one show only for each individual serving the life sentence, cyclical reruns for collective humanity. Given our life as death rehearsal, we ought to hazard a 'death' gaze on life, a gaze at the world of the living, from the cavernous skull, framed by the twin sockets and the toothy grin. Utopian perhaps since death's point of view can only be imagined rather than acquired, this is, however, no different from any other perspective in fiction or scholarship. Wondering how to speak beyond the last words, this essay soon realizes that moments of silence between words have already rendered it as much an essay of words as a wordless essay. As words wrest themselves from the void, they often wind up as mere parenthesis for it. Culled from my scribbles during days suspended between the dying and the dead, the two Books on the passing of my father and father-in-law contain entries reflecting my thoughts at the time. Some entries may sound unsavoury, but, dear reader, they have already been beautified for your eyes.
Sheng‐mei Ma (Tue,) studied this question.