The name of this 1949 memoir was taken from the English poet John Donne’s poem of the same title: “Death Be Not Proud.” In it the author and father John Gunther recounts the life and death of his son who passed after a struggle with a malignant brain tumor. Much as Donne pushes back against death’s supposed power, so does Gunther as he celebrates the vitality and beauty of his son Johnny’s life saying that the book’s purpose was for him “to write, as a mournful tribute not only to Johnny but to the power, the wealth, the unconquerable beauty of the human spirit, will, and soul.” The book’s power comes from the author’s keen power of observation coupled with a very measured, controlled level of sentimentality. A good example comes in retrospect as Gunther considers what it means that Johnny is gone: “All the wonderful things in life are so simple that one is not aware of their wonder until they are beyond touch.” I came across this book by happenstance as an author mentioned it in an article on memoirs. After finishing it in two days, I struggled as to whether I’d recommend it or not--the writing style does come across as a bit dated and it lacks the emotional punch one would expect of a father losing his son. But ultimately, I believe it’s a worthwhile read because Gunther’s aim was not an emotional “punch” but instead a bestowal of an appreciation of life: “To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one’s fellow human beings, of the earth.”
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Key Quotes:
Johnny was as sinless as a sunset.
Page: 49
Probably it was at this juncture that we first became seriously impressed with what little doctors do know.
Page: 49
Johnny did not lose function. He lived almost a year after this, and he did not die like a vegetable. He died like a man, with perfect dignity.
Page: 78
Cancer is a rebellion—a gangster outbreak of misplaced cells.
Page: 85
I have so much to do, and there’s so little time!”
Page: 122
Slowly, very slowly, Johnny stepped out of the mass of his fellows and trod by us, carefully keeping in the exact center of the long aisle, looking neither to the left nor the right, but straight ahead, fixedly, with the white bandage flashing in the light through the high windows, his chin up, carefully, not faltering, steady, but slowly, so very slowly. The applause began and then rose and the applause became a storm, as every single person in the old church became whipped up, tight and tense, to see if he would make it. The applause became a thunder, it rose and soared and banged, when Johnny finally reached the pulpit. Mr. Flynt carefully tried to put the diploma in his right hand, as planned. Firmly Johnny took it from right hand to left, as was proper, and while the whole audience rocked now with release from tension, and was still wildly, thunderously applauding, he passed around to the side and, not seeing us, reached his place among his friends.
Page: 136
He never regained consciousness. He died absolutely without fear, and without pain, and without knowing that he was going to die.
Page: 137
for a brief second, and presently, with infinite depth, very slowly and at spaced intervals, three great quivering gasps came out of him. He had regained color just before; he had some final essential spark of animation; he was still fighting. But now these shatteringly deep breaths, arising from something so deep down that his whole body shook and trembled, told us their irrevocable message.
Page: 137
Page: 122
Slowly, very slowly, Johnny stepped out of the mass of his fellows and trod by us, carefully keeping in the exact center of the long aisle, looking neither to the left nor the right, but straight ahead, fixedly, with the white bandage flashing in the light through the high windows, his chin up, carefully, not faltering, steady, but slowly, so very slowly. The applause began and then rose and the applause became a storm, as every single person in the old church became whipped up, tight and tense, to see if he would make it. The applause became a thunder, it rose and soared and banged, when Johnny finally reached the pulpit. Mr. Flynt carefully tried to put the diploma in his right hand, as planned. Firmly Johnny took it from right hand to left, as was proper, and while the whole audience rocked now with release from tension, and was still wildly, thunderously applauding, he passed around to the side and, not seeing us, reached his place among his friends.
Page: 136
He never regained consciousness. He died absolutely without fear, and without pain, and without knowing that he was going to die.
Page: 137
for a brief second, and presently, with infinite depth, very slowly and at spaced intervals, three great quivering gasps came out of him. He had regained color just before; he had some final essential spark of animation; he was still fighting. But now these shatteringly deep breaths, arising from something so deep down that his whole body shook and trembled, told us their irrevocable message.
Page: 137
What is life? It departs covertly. Like a thief Death took him.
Page: 140
There are other criteria for measuring a life as well as its duration— quality, intensity. But for us there is no compensation, except that we can go to him though he cannot come to us. For others, I would say that it was his spirit, and only his spirit, that kept him invincibly alive against such dreadful obstacles for so long—this is the central pith and substance of what I am trying
Page: 140
Page: 140
There are other criteria for measuring a life as well as its duration— quality, intensity. But for us there is no compensation, except that we can go to him though he cannot come to us. For others, I would say that it was his spirit, and only his spirit, that kept him invincibly alive against such dreadful obstacles for so long—this is the central pith and substance of what I am trying
Page: 140
to write, as a mournful tribute not only to Johnny but to the power, the wealth, the unconquerable beauty of the human spirit, will, and soul.
Page: 141
“He hath outsoared the shadow of our night”—what a gallant soul, and what an unfulfilled promise! The fact that this was to be expected makes it no easier to bear, and I hope that you and Mrs. Gunther know that you have all my deepest sympathy.
Page: 142
“He had the most brilliant promise of any child I have ever known.”
Page: 141
“He hath outsoared the shadow of our night”—what a gallant soul, and what an unfulfilled promise! The fact that this was to be expected makes it no easier to bear, and I hope that you and Mrs. Gunther know that you have all my deepest sympathy.
Page: 142
“He had the most brilliant promise of any child I have ever known.”
Page: 167
During 1947 Johnny wrote little. One of the last scribbles I have of his handwriting is a note: “Scientists will save us all.” His last letter to his mother is in the text above.
Page: 187
not even the birth of one’s child, brings one so close to life as his death.
Page: 188
wasn’t just dying, of course. He was living and dying and being reborn all at the same time each day. How we loved each day. “It’s been another wonderful day, Mother!” he’d say, as I knelt to kiss him good night.
Page: 188
when one is alone with God, what is left in one’s heart? Just this: I wish we had loved Johnny more.
Page: 189
Everybody who knew him, his friends and teachers at Lincoln, Riverdale, and Deerfield, our neighbors in the country at Madison, felt the warmth of his goodness and its great vitality in him. Yet a single cell, mutating experimentally, killed him.
Page: 194
All the wonderful things in life are so simple that one is not aware of their wonder until they are beyond touch.
Page: 196
To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one’s fellow human beings, of the earth.
During 1947 Johnny wrote little. One of the last scribbles I have of his handwriting is a note: “Scientists will save us all.” His last letter to his mother is in the text above.
Page: 187
not even the birth of one’s child, brings one so close to life as his death.
Page: 188
wasn’t just dying, of course. He was living and dying and being reborn all at the same time each day. How we loved each day. “It’s been another wonderful day, Mother!” he’d say, as I knelt to kiss him good night.
Page: 188
when one is alone with God, what is left in one’s heart? Just this: I wish we had loved Johnny more.
Page: 189
Everybody who knew him, his friends and teachers at Lincoln, Riverdale, and Deerfield, our neighbors in the country at Madison, felt the warmth of his goodness and its great vitality in him. Yet a single cell, mutating experimentally, killed him.
Page: 194
All the wonderful things in life are so simple that one is not aware of their wonder until they are beyond touch.
Page: 196
To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one’s fellow human beings, of the earth.
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