A complete life may be one ending in so full an identification with the notself that there is no self left to die.
Bernard Berenson
At 94, the great "B.B." had been failing for more than a year. Visitors to his exquisite villa near Florence reported that he seemed curled up on himself, listless, sere, like an autumn leaf in the boisterous wind of death. Last week Berenson's surviving sister, his doctor and his longtime companion, Nicky Mariano, were at the bedside, trying to ease the ancient connoisseur through a painful throat infection. Smoothing...
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