Dylan Thomas is a poet I like, but he thinks: “Life–nature–is going to end up killing me.” The poor guy died an alcoholic at the Chelsea Hotel.
It makes sense to me that New Yorkers are particularly afraid of their mortality. Just look at Woody Allen: “I’m not afraid of dying; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Or Susan Sontag.
It’s corny of me, but I like thinking of death as a lily pad–erupting with that green fuse that drives the whole cycle. I’d rather that than deny it with a lot of booze and buildings.
Like they say: “I love New York, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” Not enough lily pads.